# Eight. Point Five-Two.

Prompt: create a scene from a description of someone in the room.

She chews the end of her pen with determination as her hard eyes glaze over the equations on the board. For a Maths student, she’s been flitting in and out of concentration all afternoon, but that’s clear from the way her side fringe is fighting against the two slides she shoved in this morning. Not her usual décor, certainly, but necessary for logic to form.

A buzzer sounds in the distance of real life, and we both jolt at the piercing alarm.

“Dammit!” she snaps. “I almost had that one.”

“Don’t worry, love. Next one.”

She purses her lips forward, pushing a hmm sound from them, and nudges her squares of glasses back into position. That determination, nibbling, pricking and rushing all at once, returns.

The next question’s a group one, so I turn my attention to the board. I’m out of my depth, to say the least, and the black boardpen morphs into swirling figures, ever taunting me.

A hand nudges my right pinky.

“Psst. Start by multiplying out the brackets. Then figure the sum of the squares.”

I grin at her, and her face splits into a fellow grin like the sky after a rainfall. Flip goes the fringe again, but this time she shoves one hand through it – her left, as her right is busy untangling the Maths in front of us.

Before I can even blink and recalibrate my mind for the brackets, the buzzer in front of our table moos once again, along with the sound of her clear smack of her petite hands on the scarlet button.

“The answer,” she says, and that glint paints her blue eyes bright, “is eight. Point five-two.”

The End