A TRYST OF FATE

By Truth or Derrick

 

Attention all voyeurs, this column is for you.

 

Truth or Derrick has recently almost crossed the line of infidelity, and you are going to read about it now. Not because I want you to — no, no, I would give anything to hide this ghastly offense, but I have to express my regret in writing.

 

I have to express it in writing because, well, that's who she is: Writing.

 

You see, growing up, I always had a great deal of respect for the entire English family. Reading, the oldest girl, was always so formal and intelligent. Grammer, the son, was strict but professional and the youngest daughter, Writing, was carefree, flexible and strikingly beautiful.

 

I was immediately taken with attraction toward Writing, but as our friendship matured, I began to see that she was more than gorgeous; I observed that it is through words that one can express life’s deepest emotions. Something incredible was aroused in my soul every time I picked up a pencil with her. I was, for the first time in my life, falling undeniably in love.

 

We were married straight out of middle school.

 

In high school, I still loved Writing, but now that I had her, some of the passion had dissipated. As I became more and more involved in journalism, I was exposed to my own imperfections in my ability to articulate. This frustrated me. I was also faced with certain difficult journalistic assignments for which I took out much anger undeservingly on Writing. Frequent arguments often made me question whether I had chosen the correct focus of study.

 

Then, she came along.

 

The day I met her, I have to admit, I was a little skeptical. I had always figured her type to be completely out of my league. She was definitely not Writing. She was much more precise — no contradicting rules to get around like I before E.

 

She was Math.

 

There was something about Math that excited me — and frightened me. She could figure out in seconds what the tip should be at restaurants. She had a brilliant memory. Most of all, she never wanted to analyze every little thing I said. Instead, she believed everything I said word-for-word. When I told her I was perfectly happy with her; she never tried to find the literary devices in my expression that told her how miserable I was.

 

But I was miserable. Words would simply stop coming to my mind as my thoughts were trapped in the snare of my fourth period trig class. I stopped writing in my journal and even forgot the difference between "eager" and "anxious." Sure, Math was young, hot and exciting, but I was starting to lose the very fabric of my communicative abilities.

 

The whole affair was severely affecting me.

 

Most of all, it pained me whenever I noticed the knowing expression in Writing's face as she eyed my math muscles growing, which were completely non-existent before I began working out math problems many times a week. Sometimes Writing would even find strands of long, algebraic formula on my clothes.

 

I knew deep inside I couldn’t continue living a double life for long. At some point I would have to choose: devoted and loving Writing or hot and tempting Math? I was completely torn apart by this love triangle — but that just made me think about geometry.

 

I was severely puzzled, almost to the point that I wanted to simply leave town with my calculator never to return. I had to vent my feelings somehow, so I turned to the only source I knew: I picked up a pencil and began to compose a version of my aggressions toward Writing, Math and the world. That session gave me a lot of peace, then I realized — I had gone home to Writing before I even knew it!

 

There she had been all along, probably waiting for me patiently, quietly, because she truly loved me for who I was, not just for my body of math knowledge.

 

I was just about to break things off with Math, to entirely focus on my true, devoted one, Writing, when I got my report card. I had a D in Calculus! It seemed as though Math had already abandoned me anyway! Some true love! Some calculated perfection! Some constant!

 

Oh, what a fool I had been for ever thinking of leaving my precious Writing for a mathematical fling. Math may toss around big theorems, but she will always have to rely on a literal infinity of numbers to be appealing. Writing turns only 26 simple letters into an original, breathtaking experience every time we’re together.

 

Darling, precious Writing, you were write all along.