Eavesdropping

As I sat at an empty desk in the library, thinking about what I should write for my creative writing class, my mind touched briefly on dragons and sorcerers and evil villains, but I remembered that fantasy was never my thing.  I listened as the voices behind me discussed “critical numbers” and “the second derivative” and “relative minimum,” and I realized that I want to learn their language.  I imagined being able to speak that language—the things I could describe—things like infinity—

What can I do now to describe infinity?  I can say that infinity is the waterfall that goes off the edge of the earth, and where it falls.  It is the boy off to the side of the classroom that twiddles the pen between his fingers—back and forth, back and forth.  It’s the man coming back into his house from the mailbox, holding the letter from his son, reading and re-reading the name written on the envelope but paying closer attention to the handwriting.

It’s the math tutor that sits behind me that stops speaking that language for just a moment to talk to the student about his future.  He says, “What is your major?”  The student, not native to this country, doesn't have a major.  He’s thinking about business school.  The tutor says, “Let’s get you into business school.”  Then he goes back to talking about “plus or minus” and “critical numbers” and “x.”  

“Don’t erase that,” he says, “Write that down.  Write all that down.”