Free Number Theory by Rebecca Milton Page A

cream.
    When the fog clears, when you wake in the
morning, pee, drink a glass of water to try to clear the fuzz from
your mouth and your brain, and you look in the mirror, this
question will sometimes arise:
    What if the someone meant for me is in
prison? Or on an ice floe never to be found? Or dead? After a night
of assuring yourself that you are not destined to be alone
and lonely, that there is one person out there just for you
and fortifying that assurance with multiple glasses (read: bottles)
of wine or whiskey or a couple (read: fistful) of pills, you have
to ask this type of question, don’t you?
    I mean, the someone for everyone , is a
jolly, happy, romantic, I’m going to break into song on the subway,
fairy tale, kind of a notion, but, is it scientific? No, heavens
no, there is no science behind it at all. There are no men and
women in lab coats firing couples at each other in CERN’s large
Hadron collider, following the now-particulated remnants of the
people, seeing if they couple with other particles in a
meant-for-each-other manner. There are no labs in the frozen
wastelands of the poles, coring the ice to find examples of meant
to be together peoples at the bowels of the earth. No, that would
be insane, a waste of time and money, and a complete waste of
energy. Like sea monkeys. Still, we cling to this notion as if it
were proven and given the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.
    Actually, when I say we I mean... me . Also, when I say cling I mean... well... cling
really sums it up rather nicely. Huh, look at that.
    Bananaway... What was I saying? Right, yes,
someone for everyone.
    In the past year, I had gone to four
weddings. Three of those weddings I was part of, meaning I was an
honorable maid, a member of the bride’s retinue, and to the other
one I was a date. I was with a man who asked me to accompany him to
the wedding of his friend. I went because I liked this guy, and I
believed that this date to a wedding was a good idea. I believed, I
suppose that we would go, he would see the whole, you know,
standing up there professing undying love and attaching jewelry to
that vow and be moved. He would maybe drink a little. I would,
certainly, drink a lot.
    We would dance and laugh and eat, and the
magic of the entire situation would permeate his mind and emboss
our relationship with a glow of romance that would then send him
into a flurry of wants, including - but not limited to - buying me
a ring, meeting my parents, getting a house for us to live in
together, marrying me, getting me pregnant and growing old
together. I was not asking for much.
    Most of the wedding went the way I had hoped.
When I say most , I mean I drank. A lot. The parts that
didn’t go as planned were these parts:
    He was in love with the maid of honor and
took me to the wedding so that he could go and not look like a
total loser being there alone. Another part that did not go exactly
as I planned was the dancing part. I like to dance. I am a good
dancer. I’m not talking ridiculous, stilted, arm flapping dancing.
I can really dance. I have had lessons. I took dancing lessons in
order to meet guys... who... would... maybe... be the one. Okay,
anyway...
    I can dance. And I was planning on showing my
skills, using my Terpsichorean splendor to perhaps seduce my date a
little. I mean, what man can resist a woman who can really dance?
Turns out the answer to that question is: a gay man. Gay men cannot
resist that, and there were several of them at the wedding so,
needless to say, my dance card was full. Not with my date, however.
Why, you ask? Even if you didn’t ask, I’m going to tell you.
    My date - we’ll call him Bradley because, his
name is Bradley - decided that the dance floor was the perfect
place to accost the maid of honor and open his heart to her.
Seriously. I am not kidding here.
    He took me to the dance floor, we did one
turn and then, he broke from me, dropped to his knee and, in front
of God and the seven-tiered