The Mathematician

National Statistics Office, 4 late pm
Life was told in volumes in this part of the city. People of differing classes, in all walks of life, hurry the concrete pavements chasing pieces of required documents pertinent to their purposes: birth certificates, marriage papers, death… the countless encyclopedia of human identity. More importantly for most, despite their seeming endless wandering, theirs is the spirit that longs for home.
“Good afternoon then.”
“Thank you.”
The young man, after receiving his leave, decided to stay awhile for cigarettes. He walked with precision, a precision acquired by employees dealing with significance and deviations, towards the dilapidated waiting shed especially designed by the government to be just so. A billboard showing a long forgotten official(with a trim and proper message of gratitude for his monumental accomplishment) was peeling at the very edges in the area where a smile ends and a laugh begins. The sun was beginning to set, west, 4:37 late pm; a lifetime before rush hour.
“Hello.”
The greeting was so sudden it took a while for the young man to realize who gave it. Beside him lay a beggar, not so old as he appears and not typically untidy so as to draw contempt from most cosmopolite. In fact he was clean; far better than the newly painted wall behind him.
“Good afternoon, sir…”
“Ah, you called me sir,” interrupted the old man. “Your perception is more acute than your senses.”
“I…”

The young man blinked hard, unbelieving at the cultured words that came from one thought of as uneducated.
“I’m sorry,” said he to the beggar. “Do I know you?”
“I’m afraid not, but you are going to make the same error I did.”
“I apologize, I must go.”
“Yes, you are about to give up.”

The twilight sky took a little longer going through its play of colors, clouds thinning as they go, as the young gentleman came face to face with his existence in so simple a statement --- truth that is.
“I know,” said the old man at length. “I have summed up everything.”
“I’m lost.”
“True, nowhere far than near.”
“I…We tried everything, but nothing worked.”
“Because you miscalculated.”

They fell silent for a moment. And for a moment, the streets were deserted; they were alone on the sidewalks, under a dim lamp post now flickering to life.
“You know why I love numbers,” said the old man after much pondering. “ They cannot lie.”

For the first time, the young man saw the worn out beggar smile. It was a youthful smile. And for a long time in his life, he began to somehow understand the secrets of the universe, of real happiness, the follies of youth, and the summation of an equation he is yet to decipher. Just this thought calmed him.
“Why me. Old man?”
“Because mathematicians were young once.”

Coming home that night, Apartment 22, 10:35, long divisions of infinite numbers filled his thoughts, occupying the better part of his consciousness. The lights of a passing car broke in prisms as it streamed through the blinds, briefly illuminating the peaceful face of his wife, now asleep. Only then did he began to weigh how much he really love her.