Strip Calc v2c

STRIP CALCULUS - version 2c
Work In Progress

I've been staring at this problem for seventeen minutes now, thinking and memorizing but not making any marks with the pencil I twirl in my fingers.  That's how the game works--every line written before the final answer, every incorrect answer, and every correct answer from the other person means another article of clothing must be removed.  The blizzard outside is only motivation to remember more and write less; while the prospect of nudity is simultaneously alarming and alluring to the two of us. 

He's shirtless now. 

Part of me wants only to run my fingers through his hair and smother him in kisses and caresses; but the exam is in two weeks; so I block out his skinny shoulders and tight chest and his belly-button and the scar on his arm.  My world is simply a solid of rotation bound by two functions of Y.  I double-check my progress and realize I've forgotten how to work with radians.  I groan audibly and begin anew. 

I'm told I'll hate Numerical Methods.  I much prefer symbols, since I like to know exactly what I'm doing and the exact definitions.  I'll make a terrible engineer if I don't learn to use numbers, though; but for now, I can afford to indulge my crush on Math. 

When he first arrived at an incorrect answer and I pointed at his shirt, he immediately realized the conflict, and removed his shirt with hesitation.  I pecked him on the cheek and mussed his hair. 

When I then arrived at an incorrect answer, he pointed at my shirt with one of those amazingly hesitant looks of defiance or payback.  It was so apologetic, I almost laughed in his face.  I unbuttoned the shirt and flung it by his.  He seemed disappointed I had a tee underneath.  I flicked his nose and we kissed fast; teasing, distracted and entirely too eager for conflicting desires. 

Now, I've almost got it.  I twirl my left index and set the functions spinning about the y-axis.  There.  I've made a bizarre hollow cylinder with wobbly sine-wave edges.  I crack a smile.  This was the first problem we ever worked on together.  He sees my recognition and leans over my shoulder.  I can feel his heat again; and that smell--what it does to me.  I nuzzle him with the side of my head absently.  I'm partitioning now. 

When we first got together to study for the final, we had already been together for months.  In this class, we're allowed to make our own "formula sheets" for use on any assignment or test, including the final exam, so long as it is hand-written and can fit entirely on one sheet of letter-size paper.  Unfortunately, there is only so much that can be memorized or written on a formula sheet.  I was the one who suggested we take Sharpies to our skin. 

That took about two weeks. 

Mostly, the time was spent partitioning our separate bodies into relatively similar spaces.  He's much taller and skinnier than I, so a statement that would fit around my bicep would have to be written half the size on his; an epsilon-delta definition that went up the length of his thigh would be a third the size on mine.  We used so much rubbing alcohol just to get it right. 

The idea was this: two weeks before, we'd write anything we wanted to memorize on our bodies, but only on places that would not be visible to others.  Of course, we'd replenish the ink every few days.  During the week, we would become very familiar with everything we had written, and where we had written it.  By the end of the first week, we'd know generally where a topic was.  I still remember how he'd cleverly incorporated the birthmark on my right breast into that time derivative.  A few days more, and we'd be able to recite perfectly what was written on any square decimeter of our bodies.  The day before the exam, we could wash all the ink off, just in case anyone suspected us of cheating, or if something would have been visible. 

The goal was to walk into the final exam with no formula sheet, ace it, and walk out hand-in-hand, laughing at our own little secret and baffling everyone. 

There, I've got it.  I scratch my answer into the paper.  I know it's right, and he knows it's right.  I point at his socks, and he removes them.  I flip our notebook to another page and point at the first question.  He sighs, recognizing an old problem he never fully solved.  I peck him on the cheek with a smile.  He manages to smile back, and gets to work in his head. 

I've always loved watching him.  His face, his posture, his shoulders particularly--they all broadcast his physical state.  I love that expression on his face as he's counting; as though it's beneath him to count anything, and he's only doing it because the question is trite and he can't be bothered to think of a more clever method. 

He's got it, almost.  When it comes to problem-solving, his body is an open book, and I can read his progress.  Right now, he's just finished taking dh/dt, setting it in motion.  It's a related-rates problem involving a conical coffee filter draining into a cylindrical coffee pot.  The twist comes from the coffeepot then overflowing to create a puddle that spreads around and in front of the pot, but not under it.  He's spending too long on the cone dripping, though. 

And while I'm watching his posture, I find my eyes roving; tracing over the strange, cryptic symbols scrawled meticulously across his chest, arms and toes.  Supple curves of ink and flesh weave a curious pattern of black and ivory; pink nipples and sweetly dark downy hair. 

He taps the pencil a few more times, checking his work mentally, before he writes, hesitantly, on the paper.  I'm even a little impressed; it's correct.  He tries to look smug, but it only comes off as adorable.  He points at my tee, and I send that into the heap, too.  He takes a moment to look me over. 

I was taken aback the first time he saw me completely bare.  He had stared, but not unpleasantly.  It was as though he had never seen a naked woman before, and as though it were like looking at a heap of treasure or a sunset or a wild, strange and beautiful scene from the ocean floor.  I must have blushed, because he started apologizing, mumbling and stealing intermittent glances at me when he wasn't looking at his feet.  I'm not sure how, but we ended up kissing, and every now and then, he'd whisper, "Wow," into the breathy air. 

I'm meandering again, and he's staring again.  Sometimes I wonder what he sees in that brain of his.  Is it like me--all patterns and motion and tangled relations?  Part of me knows he must see something similarly, else we'd never have met. 

We had met at the park. 

At least, that was the first time he saw me.  I'd amble through at least once a week, mostly to paint things I saw.  One of my favourite pieces is of a Canada goose alighting in the lake.  The water ripples gold and blue from the setting sun and the reeds are stained bronze with soft sienna shadows. 

And one day, while I was painting a scene, he was watching me.  He tells the story much better, but supposedly, he had seen me painting, and stopped to watch.  And while he was watching, the wind picked up and blew my hair about; and all of a sudden, his mind was filled with numbers and symbols, and he had to sit down and write it all out--describe how my hair was moving in the wind!  He still apologizes sometimes, even now, for the way he finally confronted me. 

He had followed me home one night.  It had been a pretty rough day, with a dismal grey even covering the entire park.  As soon as I'd gotten home, I fixed myself a drink and had just put on some music when the doorbell rang.  I opened the door, and there he was--tall, skinny and terribly shy despite his convictions.  He was mumbling an apology--"Miss, I'm, I'm sorry, but uh...  I, um,  followed you here, and, I...  Um..."  He fished about in his pocket and withdrew some crinkled papers.  "Uh, this is, it's for you, um, okay?"  He then made a hasty and inelegant exit. 

I opened the papers slowly.  On the first were written two things: an equation, and the title, "This is the way your hair moves in the wind."  The next had another equation and the title, "You lean on your left when you walk."  The rest were similar--"This is the curve of your jaw", "How you put down a paintbrush", "You smile with your entire face"--save for the last sheet.  On it were written GPS co-ordinates, a date, and a time; and also a large question mark. 

How could I refuse? 

There I go again--I'm staring into space and he's staring at me.  He's got his hand on a fresh page, and I lean over to read the question.  This one is a proof involving permutations.  I groan slightly while he grins as wickedly as he can.  These have never been my specialty. 

I get to work, mentally setting up the spaces.  He really expects me to multiply four-digit numbers in my head!  But instead, I use a small trick I taught myself. 

Since I grew up playing the piano, I tend to approximate any song I hear with my toes or fingers, as though I were playing a keyboard.  I've since numbered my toes from zero to nine, and whenever I need to memorize numbers, I associate the digits with tones and "play" the number in my head while tapping my toes. 

I've never liked permutations and combinations very much. 


...unfinished