(Irrational) declaration of love and I live in an elevator
I use the elevator as therapy for my claustrophobia. Before the door of the elevator at the Math Department closed, my smartest, most beautiful, and darkest-skinned sophomore Algebra student slipped in. Her last name is Abril. I don’t know her first name. She looked at me without a smile and asked which floor. I said two. Abril pulled a purple lipstick out of her pocket. On the floor number panel, she wrote a square root sign enclosing the number 2: √2
She pressed the button. The elevator lost its destination. It went up and down without knowing where to stop. Abril took a bottle of brandy from Jerez and two glasses out of her purse. As she filled mine, she said, with an Andalusian accent, “My father has an alchemy still. Let’s see how much infinity measures,” and she stepped forward to offer her right arm for a toast while lifting her skirt with her left.
Miguel Barreras Alconchel
