[joshuaw1]

Part 2 of a series about a man trying to find love with the help of mathematics and Germans. Please read "calculations on the laws of love and probability, pt. 1" or else this will make no sense. Thanks so much for reading.


I don't have the energy to get out of bed this morning. Every cell in my body wants to lie here under my covers and listen to the people and the cars until I fall asleep again. The sessions with Mrs. Heitmann have been draining and I do not know if I can take the depression any more. All of our calculations have been fruitless and I am nowhere closer to finding Her than I was three months ago. I start to think that I should give up, start to fall into belief with Booker about how if I'm supposed to meet her, then maybe I will. This only serves to make me feel like a failure though, like the one thing I ever tried at has beaten me and it's beaten me bad. Oh, and I feel like a woman for even caring so much about Her. I've never even taken her out and yet it's like I'm a widower who's lost my high school sweetheart. Pathetic. That word just keeps running through my mind as I stop in the cleaners and pick up my suit.

It's after Shabbat and mother and I are just leaving temple when a light rain starts. We duck into a diner and decide to have some dinner before going to see a show at the Schubert. Right as I'm about to poke at a matzoh ball my mother says, "So tell me about all the women in your life?". A short pause. "No shiksas, right?" I don't have the heart to tell her that her little boy has grown up into a manic basket-case, obsessed with a woman he knows nothing about. I can't say that the man she looks at as a saint is really a crazy person who uses the bed sheets she gave him for Chanukah as graphing paper for the German.

The more I talk to my mother the more awful I feel about my life. I am nothing she wants me to be or even thinks I am. I am also nothing I want to be. I live for one thing, and at that one thing I am a failure. For the first time since my platoon was ambushed outside of Paris I think about how much easier it would be if I were dead. Sure my mother would miss me, and Booker would be left without a chess partner, but who else would it affect? I knew that it wouldn't affect the life of Her and that only drove me closer to the edge. My mother finally notices that my head is getting closer and closer to my soup and asks what is wrong. "I have an unsolvable question. Or an answer solved too early, I haven't figured it out yet." I start to cry and suddenly I can't stop. I'm sobbing, a big heap of man seasoning his corned beef with the salt of unending tears. My mother doesn't know what to do, she hasn't seen me cry since I was eleven and Jimmy Silverman knocked my tooth out with a rock, so she just sits there for ten minutes while I get everything out.

"You're not one of those men who... make a go with other men?" This makes me laugh so hard and my mood changes so quickly that to anyone around I must look like I just escaped from Bellevue.

"I don't think I can make the show, ma. Call me tomorrow and we can talk." I get up from the table and walk away quick enough so that she can't stop me. As I burst out the door I regret not bringing my umbrella, but ultimately feel as if it doesn't matter anyways.

I've been wandering the streets for hours now. It's late, almost ten, and I can't shake the feeling that this is my time. I've lived a life many men prayed they wouldn't have to, saw things God never should have shown me, and now I've failed at the one thing that could have rescued me. I start to look every woman in the face, praying I will find her before I decide to give it all up. After a while every woman looks like Her, every face has Her nose or Her eyes, and suddenly I'm walking in a sea of Hers. Unfortunately I know none of them are the real Her, and my brief happiness ceases to be. I find myself back at my building. As I'm walking up the stairs I see Mrs. Heitmann's door is open and she is listening to Wagner while furiously scribbling on a pad. As soon as she spots me she rushes towards me. "I have broken through the first stage of the theorem, but there is a problem. To solve the equation I had to use the variable that states you will never find her." I turn and start to head up the stairs, realizing the irony of timing. "This doesn't mean anything! Theorems are proved and disproved every minute. We could still find her!" Her voice trails off as I shut the door and sink against it. I lay there for a few minutes before springing up with the fervor of someone who has just made a decision. I walk out the door without bothering to lock it and start up the stairs. Mrs. Heitmann hears me and comes rushing out. "I'm sorry! I tried my best, I really did! Please don't give up! Alles was ich habe ist Mathe und Liebe! Alles was ich habe ist Mathe und Liebe!" She keeps repeating this but I ignore her on my way to the roof.

Once there I immediately go to the ledge. I climb up and close my eyes. I start to reflect on my life, everywhere I've been and everyone I've loved. Still though, she is the one that dominates my memories. I don't know if it's because it's so recent or if she actually means that much, but she's there. I open my eyes and look down to decide on a place to land. I could always go for the deli, but I like Mort and I don't want to drive away business. I see some children and decide to wait; I had to witness some horrible things when I was only a little older than them and that shit never leaves you. I see a man walking a dog and a woman who looks as if she's lost her dog. She's walking from store to store, corner to corner, and I feel sad for her. I know what it's like to not be able to find something and I see something familiar in her actions. The rushed walking, the talking to strangers on benches; it reminds me of my own search. I hope she finds what she's looking for. I take a few deep breaths, say a kaddish, and scream her name one last time. This time I scream it loud enough so that even God can hear me. As I take a step to jump I look down, the final image of my life burned into my mind before it's so violently erased. Nobody is even looking up except for the woman with the lost dog and I feel bad she's about to have to see this. When we meet eyes she screams, a long, piercing scream. I want to jump before she draws any more attention but then I realize. The woman with the lost dog, she's shouting my name. And she's shouting it loud enough so that even God can hear her.

[alja123]

Having read the first two parts of this:
I think the setting and characters are (fairly) original.

However I was pretty unconvinced by the "mathematics" aspect of the story. Basically it felt like Mrs. Heitmann could just be a regular seer or witch and the story would read exactly the same.
I don't think this bit makes sense:

"I have broken through the first stage of the theorem, but there is a problem. To solve the equation I had to use the variable that states you will never find her."

I suppose you're trying to show that the lady somehow showed mathematically that "the object of his affections" can never be found. It would be rather more realistic if she were to show that the probability of him finding her is zero (well not "realistic", but vaguely plausible). In general this kind of problem would probably be tackled statistically/probabilistically and not involving set theory (mention of Godel's theorem was rather random).
Also theorems are not proved and disproved every minute (in my opinion). Occasionally a proof of one is wrong, but generally whoever comes up with the proof is completely sure of its validity (until corrected). If you wanted to show that "proving" that the narrator can't find the girl doesnt really mean he'll never find her, you could perhaps refer to the phenomenon that if the probability of an event happening is 0, the event can still occur (in theory).

...Anyway all that may or may not be helpful. I do very much like the idea of using maths to solve a romance related problem (even though it's science fiction). Certainly there should be more stories involving maths.

Other comments:
I don't think you named the narrator.
The meeting between the narrator and his mother is humorous.
This was easy to read, so your sentence structures were good.
I think you portrayed the feeling of complete infatuation really, really well.