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The story below is the result of a writing prompt I wrote during one of our sessions. The prompt was ‘You looked out your window and can’t believe what you see.” Since this is tax season, I thought it was appropriate.
Total Sum Two-Step
Columns of numbers had imprinted themselves onto my retinas. Columns of numbers that didn’t add up. Become an accountant my parents encouraged. You like math. Numbers are your thing. It’ll be great. A desk job in an air-conditioned office, regular vacations, nine to five, no weekends. Ha! It was Sunday and I’ve been stuck in my five-by-five cubicle since six this morning, now it was three and the only food I’d had all day is a single package of stale saltines exhumed from the nether world at the back of a desk drawer, left over from some long-forgotten bowl of deli-delivered soup. Those well-meaning parents didn’t think of tax season.
My overworked fingers rubbed my sore eyes. Still numbers. After a quick detour to the restroom for a splash of cold water on my weary face, I headed to the break room for a much-needed restorative cup of coffee. As far as break rooms go, it’s a nice break room. It’s clean; there’s a lady who comes in everyday to wash the dishes, mop the floors, keep it presentable. In addition, and best of all, there is a large glorious sun-filled window, looking out onto a lovely little park behind the office building. I massaged my stinging eyeballs, poured a mug of coffee and stepped over to it. Green space would soothe my eyes and clear my head of number filled ledgers.
An upbeat waltz tempo drifted in through the open window. I peered left, then right to identify the source. Down below, on the freshly mown grass next to the playground equipment, were numbers, brightly coloured numbers. Green twos, yellow fives, orange eights, periwinkle sevens, all of them paired off and dancing. A roaring forties Hollywood musical production played out down below the office window. Numbers swirled and dipped. Formed a tight circle then blossomed out, integers spinning away to serpentine through and around the playground, winding past teeter-totters and jungle gyms. Twos tangoed with fours, sixes lindy-hopped with threes, and fives jived with eights, while chubby zeroes twisted with sevens.
From off to the left, operation signs boogied into the park. Pluses, minuses, and division symbols joined in while multiplication marks tapped their toes in time. As the music changed, the numbers and newcomers formed a line, becoming an impossible sum as they Riverdanced, their clapping and stomping filling the air.
I rubbed my tired eyes and blinked. Numbers, I hate numbers.