Conversations 19

This story is made up of a number of conversations, but they are conversations, so they just fit into the series. This one is about the trouble with numbers. When you think you know how this is adding up, read on.

"Man, why are you looking at my dick?"

"What?"

"You're staring at my dick. Are you gay?"

He laughed. "No, I was just surprised. I thought it would be bigger."

Aiden had just broken the man-code big time. Every guy knows that when you go for a piss, you stand at the urinal and you stare at the wall. You don't look around. You don't offer to shake hands with the man standing next to you. And you never look at his dick! Not ever! Then he tells me I have...

"Aiden, fuck you! I don't have a little dick. You have a little dick!"

He laughed at my sad attempt to come up with some sort of clever reply to his comment.

"Whoa there, don't get me wrong. I wasn't saying you had a small cock, I was just saying I was surprised you don't have a massive one."

"I don't get it." I didn't have a clue what he was talking about. I mean, I worked with him and we were friendly enough at the office, but I really didn't think we were close enough for us to trade comments about each other's tackle. "Why would you think I have more than normal?"

We zipped and started washing our hands.

"Okay," he said, his voice full of bonhomie and hail-fellow-well-met. "I met your wife at the Christmas party, and I have to say, on a scale of one to ten, she's a 9.3, maybe even a 9.5, when she's all dressed to kill as she was on that evening."

"Fuck you!" I responded wittily. "She's a ten, even when she wakes up with a hangover, and every other time of the day as well."

A 9.3? The number bugged me. I understood that guys were always going to check Sarah out; she was that beautiful, but how did he work the scale to be that accurate? Did he give points on various aspects of women? I pondered that: maybe a score out of 20 for the face, 20 for tits, 15 for waist and hips, 10 each for length and shape of legs... How much did that leave for things like butt, feet, hands, overall impression? What about things like personality, voice and the all-important intelligence? Sarah was no dumb blond. My wife was a beautiful petite redhead with a brain that would impress Professor X and Doctor Strange, in my opinion. She was way, way, smarter than me. I was having trouble trying to work out whether the total of my scoring guesses equalled a hundred. If it wasn't out of a hundred and the score just divided by ten, I was lost. I decided I'd have to write it down later.

Most of all, it bugged me that he had considered my wife long enough to give her fractions of scores. I don't do well working with fractions, as they're pretty tough nuts to crack, but I can operate the computer to do it, really well. How much do you have to think about someone to score them in fractions?

"Don't get me wrong." His voice interrupted my thoughts. "I think Sarah is astonishingly beautiful, which is why I made assumptions about the size of your package."

"Huh?"

"Well, look in the mirror. On the same scale of attractiveness, you're what... a five maybe? With those scars, I'd guess five and a half at most, on your best day. She seems to be so far out of your league I thought you must have an enormous penis to compensate. Something to boost up your score."

I didn't know I had a score, and looked in the mirror. Brown hair, with a lick that swept sideways across my forehead, but cut fairly short to get rid of the damned curls that had plagued me all my life; blue eyes -- ordinary; a nose -- definitely ordinary; mouth -- same. My chin was fairly square with a slight cleft that Sarah liked to lick. There was a thin scar that extended in a curve from the left side of my mouth, and another on my forehead above and between my eyebrows, but you could hardly see those any more. The rest of me -- ordinary.

I was indeed a five -- an ordinary average Joe that wouldn't stand out in any crowd of more than two people.

"So what keeps your wife with you? You must have nightmares about that."

"What do you mean?" I couldn't get the gist of what he was saying. My brain felt even cloudier than usual.

He turned, leaned his butt back against the sink comfortably and crossed his arms.

"Will, you have to know that people tend to stick with others of their own level."

My expression must have shown my suspicion. I still wasn't sure whether he was trying to come on to me. I wasn't brainy by any means, but I wasn't completely stupid. You don't break the man code for nothing. People would laugh and point at you if you did that.

"Okay, let me try another way of explaining it. You've seen how some animals choose their mates. They have a mating ritual where one will show the other their best assets -- feathers, muscles, beauty, abilities, whatever."

"I've seen that on telly, sure."

"Well that's just something that's built into all of them. It's genetic. It's a way for any species to keep getting stronger, better, more able to survive. A mate is chosen for that... that certain something that will be carried forward into their children to give them an advantage."

"The Theory of Evolution?"

He seemed astonished that I'd heard of it. Well fuck him! I might not be bright, but I can read okay -- well, sort of -- and my memory is just fine. I'd seen a couple of programmes about it and it all kinda made sense. What surprised me most was that it was a theory. Most people seemed to accept that it was fact. It would be nice to think there was someone who lived in the sky, who cared for all of us like a really good dad and planned everything out for our best interest, but I couldn't help that sneaking suspicion that it was wishful thinking. Sad, really. It would have been nice. Much better than my real dad, who would knock us about all the time when we were little. He died, and I had to pretend to be sad like everyone else -- although I had a sneaking suspicion that not many of them were that sad, really.

"Exactly," he continued. "What I'm saying is, with your wife being a 9.3..."

"A ten!" I insisted.

"...A ten, okay. And you being a five, it means something has gone wrong. You should be with a five, and she should be with another ten. It's just nature. So I thought you had something to compensate -- like a big dick. That's all I meant. I was just surprised. No offence."

"You think she should be with a ten? Not me?"

"I'm not saying that. I'm just saying it would be more natural for her to want that. Think about it. When I first discovered she was Doctor Sarah Plummer, I assumed she was in medicine. Then I found out she has a PhD, and teaches at the university."

"A PhD In financial management," I announced proudly. I don't think there was anything about Sarah that didn't make me proud. I know I'm not as clever -- and obviously not as attractive -- as her, but there's nothing I wouldn't do for her. I would shout from the rooftops how proud I was of how wonderful she was, if they'd let me. I don't do things like that anymore, however. It caused too much trouble the last time.

"Will, what do you do here at the company?"

I frowned. "You know what I do. I'm a retail analyst, and that's what I do. Why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular," he smiled. It didn't seem a very friendly smile, but I'm not good at understanding expressions. The doctors say it's not autism, it's something from that time Dad knocked me down. It's nothing I should worry about, according to them, so I don't. I do know it's there, however.

"So, what you do is punch in sales figures and then run a series of programmes over them to come up with the analysis that management is looking for. Is that right?"

"I guess. I do like the job." I had a niggling worry that if I gave the wrong answer I might lose that position. I didn't want to lose my job.

"You didn't write the programmes, you just punch in the figures and then run the analysis software."

"I didn't write them. I don't know anything about coding," I confessed. My brother Luke is the one who's good at that, and he wrote the programmes that I use every day. He was the one who told me about the job at the company, and I think he slipped in a good word for me with the management. He told me he hadn't said much: that it was just a corollary of his contract with them, whatever that means. I looked up corollary once on the net, but jeez, it was like trying to read lawyer-speak.

"So..." He drew the word out, as if he was waiting for me to jump to some conclusion.

"So what?"

"So you actually just press a few buttons now and again."

I thought about that. "I suppose I do. But then, you just talk. You don't make any of the things you sell, you just talk to people until they give up and buy something."

He looked surprised at my words, and then offended. I shrugged.

"I don't think you have a clear understanding of retail planning, marketing campaigns and the tactics of salesmanship."

"No," I admitted. "But I know I keep getting productivity bonuses for the job I do. So somebody really likes me to keep pressing those buttons."

He cleared his throat and took a little walk around the bathroom.

"Please, don't get me wrong," he said, after a few moments. He was now stroking his chin, the other arm still crossed over his chest. I'd seen him do the same thing with clients. He looked good when he did it -- very smart.

"I just wanted to point out a few of the things I was thinking about," he finished. "Just trying to help you out."

"I'm not offended," I said. "I do my job. That's it."

He leapt on that. "Ah, now that's one of the things that is concerning me. You do your job, and you get those 'productivity' bonuses, but you never get promoted. Whereas your wife is hugely successful and has won several awards for the books she's published. Do you see why I'm puzzled?"

"Hey, she deserves those awards," I said hotly. "She should get more. Sarah is the best teacher I ever had.

Okay, that wasn't strictly true. She wasn't a teacher in any class I'd attended. I'd actually met her in the university library, when she asked me if I wouldn't mind getting a book from the top shelf of a book case. I'm tall, at six-three, and she just tops five feet, so I was very happy to do it for her.

The (Mis)Behaviour of Markets

by Mandelbrot and Hudson, at least I think that's what it was called. A thick, yellow book that surprised me at how heavy it was. I stumbled and almost dropped it, and she caught my arm to steady me. Something about the name of the author caught my attention.

"Mandelbrot? I thought he was a mathematician." I'd heard Luke and his coding buddy Paul mention the name often enough while they were writing the programmes my company had bought before I started there. I had no clue as to what they were talking about or what he did, just that he was a mathematician.

"Oh you know Mandelbrot? From his work on fractals? Are you a mathematician?" Her voice was like that of a BBC news reader whose tongue had been dipped in honey, chocolate and wine, and was then sent specifically to enthral me. There was a hint of an Irish accent to it -- which could explain the red hair and green eyes, so huge behind those glasses. I preferred those and always grumbled when she wore her contacts to functions.

For a moment I had just stared, and then the idea of me being a mathematician struck me, which was so off-base that I started to laugh.

"What?" she'd asked, a smile appearing on those perfect full lips.

I'd tried to explain, but couldn't get the words past my laughter, and in the end she was laughing helplessly, just because I was.

"I'm sorry," I had managed to gasp eventually. "No. I'm not a mathematician. I'm a financial analyst. That's the job title."

"Oh really," she'd said, her eyes widening slightly with interest. "Well, that's not too far from being a mathematician. "

That set me off again, which set her off in turn, and we'd ended up leaning on each other as other people in the library shushed us angrily. The head librarian even came up to tell us off, until I guess she realised who it was.

"Sarah, I didn't realise that was you," the older woman said. She was nice and didn't mind me using the library. We got along well. "Are you all right? Mr. Plummer, are you bothering Professor Lowry?"

"No, he wasn't. We were just sharing a joke." The little redhead giggled, the sound of which seemed to startle the librarian somewhat. "Except I'm not sure what the joke is."

She started to laugh again at how ridiculous that was, and now it was my turn to be drawn in by it. We leaned on each other for support once more.

The librarian rolled her eyes.

"Mr. Plummer, you know where the anime section is. What are you looking for over here?"

"I was looking for books on film critics. I was trying to find out a good movie to watch."

Sarah had burst into helpless laughter at that, and only later did I understand she thought I was joshing the librarian.

I've heard that laughter makes people feel good. It has to do with chemicals, apparently, but to me it just makes sense that if you're laughing, you're usually happy. In that little bubble of laughter, I invited Sarah to have a coffee with me to thank her for propping me up when I'd almost slipped while getting her book. She thought the idea of tiny little her managing to keep big old me upright was hilarious and we were off again, this time trying to stifle our giggles -- which just made it worse. Finally, we managed to pull ourselves together, and she accepted my offer, taking my arm as we left the library.

We talked. We talked for a couple of hours over several cups of coffee. Finally, I invited her over for dinner. Perhaps if I'd explained I still lived with my family, she might have turned me down; probably would have turned me down. Once she was in my car and I phoned Mum to tell her I was bringing a guest, it was probably a bit late to back out politely. Several times I caught her looking at me carefully, but on that journey home we mostly laughed -- jokes, stories, current affairs; they all seemed funnier when I was with her, and she seemed to have the same reaction.

Dinner was great that night. Despite the looks of complete disbelief I got when I'd turned up with this stunning, intelligent, funny and fully functioning beauty on my arm, the family was in top form. Mum, Luke and my sister, Amy, had charmed Sarah completely. In turn, she had them twisted around her little finger by the end of the meal, at which point Amy whisked Sarah off for some girl talk in the kitchen. It went on for quite a while, but Luke kept me occupied by showing me some of his new games, so I didn't really have time to get worried about it. I figured Amy was probably ratting me out on stupid stuff I'd done as a kid. Hey, that's what sisters who love you tend to do.

When Sarah rejoined us, she sat next to me, looked at me intensely, and then traced the scar on my cheek with a finger. I think it took everyone by surprise when she leaned in and kissed the scar for a long moment. It certainly surprised me. I was the same age as Sarah, but I hadn't been kissed by many pretty girls at that stage, that's for sure. Well, not even one, actually -- even just on the cheek.

"Does that mean you'll come to a movie with me?" I asked, and she looked at my family and then nodded.

"Yes, I'd love to. Let me know..."

"Great. Come on then, let's go," I said, leaping to my feet and drawing her up to join me. "It's okay, you'll love it."

Eyes wide, Sarah had looked at Amy who gave a little shrug and nodded.

"If nothing else, be kind," Amy had murmured.

I didn't get what she meant; too busy looking forward to seeing

Breakfast at Tiffany's

. I'd heard that it was a really good movie.

We got there in time for me to buy her an expensive box of chocolates and a soft drink. I got popcorn for us to share. When we took our seats, she took my hand and held on to it.

"You are a surprising man, Will Plummer. I like you."

"I'm glad. I like you, too. Think how awful it would be if we had to sit here and hold hands if we didn't like each other."

She smiled at me, and I fell in love.

My stomach seemed to suddenly swoop up in my belly and flop over. Not romantic-sounding, but true. I'd never really been in love before, just had crushes on a few girls over the years. This was different -- so different.

After the show, I took her home and she invited me in for a drink.

"Love one," I said happily. "I'm really thirsty after all that popcorn."

She gave me that look again, the one where her head tilted to one side slightly, and then she smiled and I felt my stomach swoop all over again.

That drink -- of soda -- went down well. Sarah put some music on and we danced. It was lucky Amy had taught me well, as she and Mum were the only women I'd danced with to that point. After a couple of songs where we slow danced on the thick rug, which was nice in our bare feet, Sarah drew my head down and kissed me. I kissed her back, trying to learn on the fly by copying everything she did, and it turned into quite a snog, which had to be nearly the best event of my life that year. Over Sarah's earnest announcement that she didn't ever do this on a first date, it eventually turned into a rush for the bedroom while I thrilled to her words that we'd been on a date. A real date -- fancy that! I'd carried her in my arms like a baby, while she kissed my neck and nibbled at my ear.

What followed was the almost best event of my life. Soon, I was no longer a virgin. Besides discovering that the pleasure she gave me was almost supernatural in how astonishingly good it was, I also found that this new status of non-virgin allowed me to nibble and kiss her body wherever I wanted. I took full advantage of that; learning new things about women and pleasure every inch of the way. She laughed and smiled, murmured and sighed, and now and again gave little long-lasting screams, which startled me at first. Then I found myself on my back and quite a few times making the same sounds, so I understood perfectly well how she felt. Those sounds echoed from both os us whenever I was behind, underneath or on top of her. Sarah was so pretty, and my heart felt so full it was almost overloaded, so it took a long, long time to make sure I kissed every inch of her as many times as she'd let me. I knew I was in love, but I also knew that this probably was a once in a lifetime thing. I wasn't going to waste a moment of it.

In the morning, however, holding onto me like the most beautiful little limpet the world ever saw, she said she thought she loved me, too, after I told her how she made me feel. That made me really happy -- and that really was very best event of my life.

When I told her later that I'd never passed my GCSEs, and pretty much scraped through high school on perfect attendance alone, she immediately got me signed up and began to tutor me. She was a great teacher, and so much more. Within a year I had two GCSE passes. More importantly, we were married and living happily in a house we'd bought. Sarah had made a fair amount of money from her books, as new students all round the world kept buying them each year as regular as clockwork. I kept making my bonuses, and between us we found a lovely cottage in the urban countryside, with plenty of room to expand.

I had never been happier -- my life had become a dream come true, which was a really nice change.

That was, until Aiden introduced this new idea of scores to me.

"What's puzzling you?" I asked him.

"Your wife is ten physically and mentally. She's an intellectual, and you are... well, you're not."

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing," he said, with a laugh. "I'm a friend -- just trying to look out for you. You see, at some stage your wife is going to realise that she's on a much higher level than you, and in all likelihood, it's going to make her unhappy to realise that she has someone who is... to put it bluntly and please don't take offence -- less than she deserves. Don't you think she should get what she deserves? I mean, you love her, I can tell you do. So don't you want her to have what she deserves?"