The Quantum Sandwich

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is ‘heat wave’.

This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara is an Italian author and currently lives in Berlin, Germany. She writes fiction, with a focus on children’s literature and science fiction.

 

The Quantum Sandwich

by Chiara De Giorgi

 

created with Canvas

It was a hot summer day in the town of Borgarvogur. The hottest on record, as a matter of fact. The town was gripped by a heat wave that made it difficult even to breathe, the hot air felt almost solid, and people could barely function. The air conditioners were on full blast everywhere, but most people still could do nothing but nap.

This was not the case at the International Borgarvogur Centre for Quantum Research, where four workaholic scientists could not stop discussing the equation around which their next study would focus. The purpose of their research was not very clear, to tell the truth, yet they were optimistic. Quantum research usually worked and did not work at the same time until the very last moment, but that was precisely why they were paid.

Ensconced in the basement laboratory, the air conditioner turned up to the highest setting and the refrigerator filled with containers of radioactive materials and energy drinks, they argued animatedly.

“…therefore, if we insert the indistinguishable particles in the eigenvalue equation, the angular momentum will be—uhm… Σ plus the pseudovector B, plus, hem… “

“No, no, no, that’s not how it works! Where did you leave the adiabatic approximation?”

“You mean the anti-symmetrization.”

“You’re all wrong! We need to apply a modified version of the no-cloning theorem for a quantization of the wave-particle—”

“But why bring up the eigenvalue equation in the first place? It’s an unnecessary complication, and—”

“My highly respected colleagues!” Jon's voice drowned out the others’. Despite the blaring A/C, he was sweating profusely under a ten-week-beard and ten-month-hair. “We’ve been discussing, calculating, equalizing, and quantizing for six hours straight. I say, let’s take a break, eat a sandwich, make small talk, watch the geese scene in The Aristocats, drink coffee and start again. Who’s with me?”

Grumbling, mumbling, and sighing, Ruth, Ken, and Svetlana put the cap on their markers and retrieved their sandwiches.

The four scientists cleared some space on the table, moving books, folders, the plates for the double split experiment, stickers with the center’s logo, and so on, and sat down. Each of them had their sandwich in front of them. It was their tradition to take the first bite together at the same time—a kind of superstition based on the quantum question of whether the sandwich was bitten and not bitten at the same time. Every day, they diligently proved that the sandwich was bitten.

But on that very hot summer day, something happened just a moment before the four scientists could grab their sandwiches. There was a power cut. Suddenly, the air conditioner stopped humming, the old refrigerator stopped squeaking, the quantum computers stopped vibrating, and the lamps stopped providing light. Silence and darkness fell in the basement.

“Oh no. My laptop was charging… And now we can’t watch The Aristocats!”

“I am more concerned that we will die from the heat with no A/C.”

“I have a fan in my backpack! Of course, I would need to locate it first—Do any of you have your phones with you? To turn on the flashlight. Mine has zero battery; I haven’t charged it for two days.”

“Same.”

“Same. Wait… How long have we been down here, exactly?”

“No idea.”

“Hey, do we still have those radium bars in the fridge? We can use them and have some light until they start the emergency generator.”

“Why would we have radium bars in the fridge?”

“What do I know, maybe to keep them out of the way so we don’t trip over them?”

“I think I saw a radium bar yesterday when I took an expired yogurt out of the fridge.”

“Expired yogurt? What flavor?”

“Strawberry, I believe. But it was a little hard to decipher the flavor. And it was a weird shade of green.”

As suddenly as it had gone out, the power was back on. The laboratory filled with the usual noises and buzzing and lights.

A surprise—or a mystery—awaited the four scientists. The sandwich in front of Jon had been bitten.

“Hmpf, you just couldn’t wait, could you?”

“But it wasn’t me! Someone bit my sandwich!”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Sure, now the sandwich ate itself.”

“Maybe it did and maybe it didn’t. We should set up an experiment to check.”

“Seems elaborate. And it’s unbearably hot.”

“Oh, listen guys, who cares. We can’t spend the day like this, after a sandwich. Let’s split what we have so that we can all eat the same amount of sandwich.”

Everyone liked the idea, and rulers, compasses, and calculators promptly appeared. The three whole sandwiches plus the one with the bitten piece were dissected with pinpoint accuracy, and they finally started to eat.

Thus satiated, they drank a coffee laughing together with Amelia and Abigail, the geese of The Aristocats, and finally went back to discussing entanglement, entropy, qubit, and so on.

After an unsuccessful X-basis measurement, they estimated that the workday could be said to be over. They did not have a single working watch between the four of them, but they were scientists and agreed that their sense of time was very good, refined by years of experiments. They were all wrong, but they didn’t know.

When they stepped outside, the air was still scorching hot, and they each hurried to their car to drive home and take a cold shower.

The next morning, they met in front of the lab door as usual. They always entered together, to test the quantum assumption that they were all four in and all four out of the lab at the same time. Which, given that it was exactly what they did, was usually confirmed.

Another surprise awaited them. Another mystery, rather.

In the middle of the table, was the missing piece from Jon’s sandwich.

 

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hot and Cold

  

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is ‘heat wave’.

Phil Yeats wrote this week’s story.

In April, 2024, he published The Body on Karli’s Beach, the third book in his Barrettsport Mysteries, a series of soft-boiled mysteries set in a fictional South Shore Nova Scotia town. For information about these books, and The Road to Environmental Armageddon, his trilogy about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Hot and Cold

by Phil Yeats

 

Heat domes, atmospheric rivers, ice storms, what crazy names will they come up with next? He didn’t know what an atmospheric river might be, but, as he trudged home with his weekly supply of groceries in unseasonably hot spring weather, the idea of ice storms and heat domes was easy enough to understand. 

The sweltering day reminded him of a day during a period of boiling weather fifty years earlier, when he was a student at the University of British Columbia. They called it a heatwave rather than a heat dome, but the effect was the same. The heat, even in the early morning, made struggling up the Point Grey escarpment on his bicycle into a greater challenge than usual.

He watched as an idiot in a car roared past rather close to him, then swung wide, almost off the pavement onto the shoulder on the next curve. He heard, more than saw, another cyclist shout before crashing into the roadside bushes. 

After several minutes of peddling furiously, he reached what he assumed was a crash site. He found a young woman, obviously another student, struggling to extract her bike from a thorny-looking bush. He glided to a stop, lept from his bike, and rushed to help her. “Didn’t the asshole in the car stop?”

She shook her head as she slumped to the ground. “He was so close he caused me to veer onto the shoulder. Look at the drop. I lost control and ended up in the bushes, but he didn’t hit me.”

He extracted her bike and spun her front wheel. It wobbled. “Not good. You won’t be riding this,” he said.

She stood and watched the wheel’s unsymmetrical gyrations. “Oh, dear. What should I do?”

“There’s a little bike shop off University Avenue. Old guy who runs it has helped me in the past. If you’re feeling okay, we could walk there. He should be able to sort this out.”

“But you’ll miss your classes.”

“No worry. Nothing until 10:30 and it’s not everyday I get to help a maiden in distress.”

She looked down and mumbled something he didn’t catch.

“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to sound pushy, but the guy’s old and mostly retired. His shop looks like a shed in his back garden. You might miss it.”

They walked, pushing their bikes up the hill and along a street that bordered the UBC campus. He learned she liked folk music.

That seemed like a good omen because he was also into folk music, and Joan Baez had a concert scheduled at the Pacific Coliseum for one evening later that week. He mentioned buying two tickets outside the repair shop. She agreed without hesitation and passed him a scrap from her notebook with her name and phone number. 

She entered the shop, and he rushed to the place where he could safely leave his bike and then to the Student Union Building, where he could buy the tickets. Tickets in hand, he charged to his class, paying no heed to the oppressive heat. He made it just after the buzzer sounded.

The Joan Baez concert became a rather complicated affair. The tickets were inexpensive, but they were all rush seating. Rush seating in the 20,000-seat coliseum meant leaving early with food and drink on a long bus across the city. After the concert, they faced another bus ride before dessert in their neighbourhood White Spot. Two simpler dates followed. 

Then on Sunday afternoon, almost three weeks after they met during that early autumn heat wave, she told him it must end.

“It’s me, not you,” she said when he stared slack-jawed. “I’ve enjoyed every minute of our time together, but it just can’t be. I’m leaving now, and please, don’t contact me.”

She walked away, and he let her go. His heart had turned to ice, but he didn’t know what he could do. 

Now, fifty years later, every heat wave revives fond memories of those few days together. The cold that followed is forgotten.

 

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

 

 

Heatwave

 Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “heatwave.”

Cathy’s writings are found in numerous print and online publications. She writes all genres but invariably veers toward the dark—so much so her late mother once asked, “Can’t you write anything happy?” (She can!)

Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on her works.

 

 

Heatwave

by Melvin MacDonald*

 

 “Marie,” Melvin said, when his wife walked into the room, “remember that poem I wrote a couple of years ago?”

“Hmm, can’t say I do.”

Before Melvin could reply, she added, “Oh, do you mean that Valentine’s Day poem?”

“That’s it, Marie.”

“Mel, that poem was atrocious.”

He put on his best pretend-pout face. “But it was written with love. From me to you.”

His wife’s face whitened.

Ha, he thought. Now she feels bad.

“I gotta finish the laundry,” she said, slinking out of the room.

Melvin went into the den and sat at the desk. He pulled up Google docs and stared at the blank screen. Is this what writer’s block feels like? And why was he here? To add more misery to his already failed poetry attempts? He’d written several over the past few years, most of which he hadn’t shared with anyone. The few he had shared hadn’t gone over well.

He swiped at his forehead. “Gah, really wish we had air-conditioning,” he muttered. The heatwave was getting to him. Thirty-plus Celsius temps were beyond his comfort level.

Hmm, a poem about the heat would be apropos!

And then he had a brainstorm...

 

***

 

“Hey, Marie, where are you?” He raced out of the den like a madman. “Where the heck are you?”

And then he saw her, sauntering into the kitchen from the deck.

“Melvin, what in the world! Why are you screeching like that?”

“Marie! Marie, listen to this. It’s a poem I just wrote. I really think you’ll like it.”

“I thought you’d given up on poetry.”

“I never said that!”

“Well, your other renditions weren’t so wonderful.”

“But this one is. Listen.”

He clutched the paper the printer had spewed out. His best poem ever. Marie would be so amazed—stunned would be more like it.

“It’s called ‘Heatwave.’ Here, listen up...

 

 

“I hate the heat—it makes me sweat.

The sun beats down upon my weary head,

And I long for cool relief but haven’t yet

Found respite from the blazing summer threat.

My clothes cling to my damp frame.

I hate the heat—it makes me sweat.

I dream of snow-capped mountains set

Against a sky of endless blue instead

Of faces flushed with red, but haven’t yet

Escaped this stifling prison where I’m met

With waves of scorching air that suffocate.

I hate the heat—it makes me sweat.

I pray for rain to fall without regret

To cleanse away this oppressive flame

But haven’t found relief as of yet,

So I suffer through each hot day,

Counting down until the season's end.

I hate the heat—it makes me sweat—

But cooler days will come again.

 

 

“So, what do you think, Marie?”

For the first time, his wife was speechless. Well, he remembered other times she’d been stunned, too, but this time was different. She was totally stunned. Totally.

Her eyes were wide with amazement. “Really, you wrote that?”

“I did.”

“I—I don’t know what to say. That was quite excellent.”

“I know, right?” He smiled. She’d never clue in.

 

***

 

*Melvin MacDonald (he’s not much of a poet but is sure a great liar.)

 

The Spot Writers - Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

 

Pizza

 Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is (appropriately): heatwave. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers.

Pizza

by Val Muller

 

Normally, Verona would have walked to the grocery, but in this heat wave, everything would spoil by the time she got home. Ice cream would melt, corn would steam, eggs would hard boil themselves in their carton.

Uber was so expensive, though. So she walked to the grocery, her reusable bags sweaty in her hands. At least walking to the store would save money. Then she could order an Uber for the way back.

When the swoosh of the grocery doors ushered in a blast of cool air, Verona was too relieved to remember to check the app. Instead, she sauntered down the aisles, taking her time choosing from the boxes of pasta, the canned goods, the cereals. She even stopped for a moment to chat with Burton, the neighbor from Apartment 3B. He seemed nice enough, but socially awkward for sure. He stood too close, spoke too robotically. He was there to buy half a cake—for his sister’s half birthday, he explained. His family was one of those families with time and money to think of things like half birthdays.

Normally, Verona would have squirmed out of the conversation—Burton had asked her to join him for pizza once, then tacos, and she had said no both times, still unsure if he meant it as friends or a date—but the cool air conditioning encouraged her to linger. In fact, the conversation lasted long enough for her to learn that Burton would be visiting his sister in the morning—it was his turn to bring the half-cake. For her half-birthday gift, he had bought her a set of geode earrings.

“Because they’re cut in half,” he explained, waiting for her to admire the punchline of the half-birthday gift.

After parting ways with Burton, Verona savored the produce aisle and saved the frozen foods section for last, when the last of the sweat evaporated from her clothes and made her feel human again.

And, of course, since she would have a ride back this time, she over-shopped. This was three times as many things as she would buy for herself if she planned to walk home, but the sales were good and the air conditioning was even better, so might as well stock up.

She checked out and piled her bags into a shopping cart, wheeling it outside to be met with the inferno of boiling, baking summer heat, the kind that sizzles everything and everyone, and patience as well.

She squinted her eyes to meet her Uber driver.

Until she remembered she had not scheduled an Uber driver.

Sure, she could go back inside, but there was ice cream and raw meat and all kinds of things that should make their way to a freezer as soon as possible given the current heat advisory. Stupid, stupid.

She cursed under her breath and turned back to the store, and in the sudden movement, her shopping cart crashed head-first into Burton’s.  He was also leaving the store with a cart full of goods.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, pulling out her phone with one hand and trying to open the app.

“Forget something?” he asked. “I always forget things.” He leaned over his cart to see if his half-birthday cake had survived the collision. It seemed fine.

“Yeah, I forgot my ride,” she mumbled.

His smile came quickly. “I know someone who just happens to be driving to your very same apartment.”

Of course she accepted the ride. No one could blame her for accepting the ride. Burton was kind, helping to load the groceries, though he made an awkward joke about their bags getting mixed up. She supposed he wasn’t that bad; it was just that her high school self would have kicked her current self for socializing with someone like that. On the way home, he talked about Star Wars and Lord of the Rings. He had never been to a sports event or a concert in his life.

“Pizza?” he asked.

She had zoned out, but they had just pulled into the parking lot of their building.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, want to unload our groceries and then maybe order a pizza?”

She raised an eyebrow at the absurdity of it: unloading bags and bags of groceries and then calling out for a pizza. But as soon as the car door opened, the heat poured in, and she realized she had no will to cook tonight. Besides, maybe Burton wasn’t so bad. She had known for a year now that she needed to make more friends since graduating college, and at some point, she just had to look back over the years and tell her high school self that she had it all wrong.

At least during a heatwave.  

The Spot Writers—Our Members: 

Val Muller: http://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

 

The Marathon

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is to use these words in a writing: jeep, marathon, pizza, wealthy, bedroom.

This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara is an Italian author and currently lives in Berlin, Germany. She writes fiction, with a focus on children’s literature and science fiction.

 

The Marathon

(an Inn at the End of Dreams story)

by Chiara De Giorgi

 

Created with Canva

At the Boarding School at the End of Dreams, spring was the time for races and for the School Marathon, a much-awaited event for all students.

This year, among the participants was Rocco, a young Imperial Toad Prince. He was looking forward to competing and had been training with great enthusiasm throughout the winter. However, like all male Imperial Toads at puberty, Rocco had trouble controlling his transformation. (It was a variation of the classical frog-prince curse: all male Imperial Toads could transition to either form throughout their lives).

On the day of the race, he was tense, but his closest friends—Alex, a half-elf skilled in human technology, Mara, a fairy heiress, and Lisa, a descendant of Hermes who could run incredibly fast—were there to support him.

“Don’t worry, little frog!” said Mara with a smile. “My cousin Thomas is here, with his flying jeep. We will follow you from above and step in if needed. We can’t get too close to the race roads, or the judges will disqualify you.”

Thomas was a wealthy Fae and owned a gorgeous flying jeep, equipped with every comfort.

“Take this fitness bracelet and wear it,” Alex added. “I have installed an app on my phone connected to it, so we can monitor your heartbeats. We know that you are about to transform when your heart starts beating irregularly, so we can intervene.”

The others always had many questions about the technology Alex brought back from the human world every time he went to visit his maternal grandparents, but they had learned to trust him.

Lisa winked at Rocco. “We have everything under control, don’t worry! You just run.” Encouraged, Rocco accepted the bracelet and went to the starting blocks.

 ***

The race started under a clear, bright sky and Rocco set off running with focus and determination. His friends followed him from above, keeping a safe distance. Lisa, who had not entered the marathon because she was not interested in competing (she would certainly win anyway), was stretching her muscles, ready to do her part.

After a few miles, the app beeped.

“It’s happening!” called out Alex. “Rocco’s heartbeat is going crazy!”

Thomas wasted no time and lowered the jeep just enough to get Lisa down quickly. With her incredible speed, she reached Rocco in the blink of an eye. Wearing a disguise that made her look like him, she discreetly scooped up Rocco (who by now had completely changed into his frog form) and continued running in his place.

After a couple of miles, she heard Max’s voice through the earpiece she was wearing. “He’s about to turn back into a boy!”

With a swift movement, Lisa placed Rocco back on the ground. Within seconds, the frog was a human again and Lisa quickly ran back to the jeep.

Everything seemed to be going well and Rocco finished among the front runners, but their trick had not gone unnoticed… One of the judges, an old wizard with a razor-sharp eye, had spotted the unusual movement, so Rocco was disqualified and sent back to his bedroom.

“Ugh,” he said, disappointed. “Now I have to wait until next year to compete again…”

Mara tried to comfort him. “Well, look at the bright side. In a year’s time, you might have learned how to handle the transformation and you’ll run on your boy legs from start to finish!”

 ***

That evening, Thomas, who also wanted to do something to cheer Rocco up, showed up with a huge pizza, big enough to feed an army. He smuggled it to Mara, Alex, and Lisa, who sneaked into Rocco’s room to surprise him. Soon, there was a full-scale party; the kids were laughing and chatting and swapping slices of pizza. Unfortunately, the wizard judge who had imposed the punishment on Rocco went to knock on his door. Knock knock! Then, without waiting for an invitation to come in, he entered. The kids froze mid-laughter and looked at him apprehensively, not knowing what to expect.

“Are you going to expel us?” asked Lisa defiantly.

“You know, not only do I have very sharp eyesight,” said the old wizard, ignoring Lisa’s question. “But also an exceptional sense of smell. And this pizza smells delicious!”

“Well, why don’t you take a slice too?” asked Rocco politely.

“That’s exactly what I am going to do, young Imperial Toad Prince.”

In the stunned silence of the kids, he sat cross-legged on the carpet with them and took a slice of pizza with olives and spicy pepperoni.

“You know,” he said between bites, “I don’t believe in punishment. And by the way, if I have to tell the truth, I really enjoyed your little trick.”

He winked at Lisa.

“And now,” he continued, speaking to Rocco, “I should probably tell you something deep and wise, like You lost the race but found real friends, or something.”

“But you won’t?” said Rocco, perplexed, since the old wizard had stopped talking to focus on his slice of pizza.

“Don’t you already know that?”

The kids looked at one another, smiling tentatively. They were still a bit tense, they did not understand why the old wizard was talking like that. Was he going to expel them, after all?

The judge sensed their discomfort so gave one last bite to his pizza, then wiped his hands on his suit and stood up.

“Listen,” he said. “Maybe I’m a bit of an unconventional character, but I do believe friendship is more important than competition. So. Who wants ice cream? I know just the right place!”

And just then, he turned into a frog.

 

 

*****

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

The Beginning of Something Special?

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is to use these words in a writing: jeep, marathon, pizza, wealthy, bedroom. Phil Yeats wrote this week’s story.

In April, 2024, he published The Body on Karli’s Beach, the third book in his Barrettsport Mysteries, a series of soft-boiled mysteries set in a fictional South Shore Nova Scotia town. For information about these books, and The Road to Environmental Armageddon, his trilogy about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

 

The Beginning of Something Special?

by Phil Yeats

 

She was wealthy, but he wasn’t. He was smart, but she wasn’t. They say opposites attract, but in this case, it seemed unlikely.

They met in high school, but they didn’t attend the same high school. Hers was an exclusive private boarding school where students from all over the country and many from abroad lived in luxury on a large estate near to, but separate from, a moderate-sized town. He lived twenty kilometres away and took a school bus to the rural high school on the other side of town. 

Jessica’s workaholic father imagined the day she would join his law firm as a junior partner, but that wasn’t likely to happen. She was a mediocre student and far more interested in sports than in academic subjects. She favoured athletics, especially the longer events, but also played basketball and volleyball.

Zac’s alcoholic father worked whenever he could at whatever jobs he could land, but none ever lasted very long. Money was always tight and any thoughts of his family helping pay for our hero’s university education… No way that was happening, but schoolwork was all he was good at, and he was determined to go.

Scholarships and student loans were the only way he’d generate the money he needed for college. He didn’t relish the idea of a massive student debt, so he started saving for university with a part-time job in the town’s pizzeria at the tender age of fourteen. He bussed tables and washed dishes; and when he could, he helped prepare the pizzas. The pay was lousy, but it all went into his college education account.

Things improved after he came second in a national mathematics contest for grade nine students. He started earning a few dollars tutoring other kids in his school. Business grew in September of his grade ten year after his boss at the pizzeria suggested he put up notices offering his math tutoring services in the restaurant and elsewhere around town. 

The first to respond was a grade nine student from the Academy. He agreed to meet her in the town library after school on the next day.

“Awesome,” she called out when she spotted him at a table in the town library with a copy of the grade nine math text in front of him. It was the one they used at the Academy, not the one from the public school. “You work in the pizzeria, right?” When he nodded, she continued. “Effing crazy. High school math prodigy working in a grungy pizza place. You should have a scholarship to some cool math academy.”

“Nothing like that’s happening, and I couldn’t afford to live away from home. So, why are you here anyway?”

“Almost failed math last year, and we’re only a month into the new year and I’m already so effing lost…” 

“I thought the Academy had the smallest classes, best teachers, most resources. Everything we don’t have in the regular schools?”

She stared at the ceiling. “Yeah, like, really…”

“Okay. This is how it works. I have ninety minutes after school before I have to head home. You tell me how often and what days you prefer, and I’ll see what works for me. Fifteen bucks a session.”

She handed him a two bank notes, folded into a tiny square. “Let’s start. See if the math genius can do better than my stupid teachers.”

And that’s how it began. They met most Tuesday afternoons through that school year and the next. By the time he graduated and moved away to attend university, she understood the curriculum well to enough to pass grade twelve math on her own.

Fast-forward five years and we find him graduated with his Bachelor of Mathematics from the University of Waterloo and working in the information technology sector in Boston. She has recently graduated from the University of Delaware, where she studied psychology. Her primary interest, however, was in track where she excelled at long distance events. She was in Boston for the famed Boston Marathon.

On Patriot’s Day at 11 a.m., Zac joined the throng near the finish line, wondering if Jessica Lane from the University of Delaware listed in the elite athletes’ group could be the girl he tutored during his high school years. He found a suitable vantage point and settled down for what might be a long wait. The fastest runners were due in about an hour, but he didn’t know how fast she would be. He had food and water. He wouldn’t suffer as he waited.

The first runner ran past his vantage point at 11:45, a good time according to an apparently well-in-formed spectator who said they were about two minutes from the finish line. The first woman ran by at 12:07 and he started counting. He recognized Jessica as she ran by in a group whose time would be about around two hours and twenty-six minutes. That would be close to and hopefully under the qualifying time for the upcoming summer Olympics. He rushed to the finish line area and waited by the entrance to the restricted zone. After about twenty minutes, she emerged, accompanied by another young woman. She was still wearing her running gear.

She turned and stared, but just for a moment. “I knew you were living in Boston. I’m so glad you came out to watch.” She stepped forward and gave him a big hug before turning to her companion. “Tell me again what’s the story with that damned jeep? I was too overwhelmed by my time when you tried to explain.”

Leah, the companion, sighed. “Jordan’s text says they have the part; will install it first thing tomorrow morning; should be ready to go by noon.”

Jessica pointed at an open space that was outside the restricted area. “Great. I’ll continue my cooldown by walking around over there with lots of stretches. You’ll return to the rental car and get my kitbag while Zac and I catch up on old times. When you get back, we’ll find a-foodery restroom where I can get changed. Later, we’ll find somewhere for a high carb meal. A shower would be nice, but I guess that’s not on.”

Our hero joined the conversation. “My apartment’s only a fifteen-minute walk from here. You could have your shower and we could either organize that high carb meal at my place or find a restaurant that meets your requirements.”

Zac and Jessica strolled along the Commonwealth Avenue Mall with Jessica stopping frequently for an obviously well-established stretching routine. Between stretching stops, Jessica described her father’s continuing opposition to her athletic activities. Then suddenly, after she graduated from Delaware, he presented her with the keys to an SUV and a two-person support team. The support staff was great, but the huge Jeep Wagoneer SUV was a disaster. She’d only had it for a month and it had broken down twice. This last time almost scuppered her participation in the one event where she needed a great time to force her way onto the Canadian Olympic team.

“But you must be happy with your time,” Zac said. “You were close to the winners, and I heard several spectators comment on how well you did.”

“I am. Knocked more that a minute off my best time. I was pissed when the SUV broke down in Albany, but Sylvie kept me focused while she looked after details like renting a car and finding us accommodation near the start line. Reminded me of someone who got me on track when I couldn’t do math in high school.”

Leah was waiting outside Zac’s low-rise building when they sauntered up. He described his one-bedroom apartment with the bathroom only accessible through the bedroom as they climbed the stairs.

 

*****

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/