Flirting with fractions

One-eighth of me, or maybe a tenth, is acutely aware of the approximately 22 inches that separate your shoulder and mine. One casual shift later, I'm four inches closer. I can always just blame it on your magnetic force pulling me in.

One or two-fifths of me is analyzing your body language subtly. Have you inched closer to me, or is it just my wishful imagination? Oh I'm simply an academically inclined girl, dull next to your golden shine. The odds are not in my favour. Or maybe just a tenth of it is.

At least one-fourth of me is wishing something would happen already. There's a fair probability that all this waiting will amount to nothing. Is this all just a waste of time? I wonder. I hesitate to hypothesize.

A good third of me is now close to hyperventilating. Your arm is brushing mine. Either you moved closer or I did. It could be both. It better be. Only I don’t want to come up as desperate.

One-half to three-fourths of me is now debating what to do next. My options are laid out, and for once I have no clue. Why don't they teach us this in school, rather than theorems and formulas and all those facts that I so studiously memorize? There is no logical decision. Logic has gone out the window. What a scary world this is.

It turns out I don't have to decide because suddenly you reach for my hand. Or maybe I reach for yours. The details are unclear at this point.

But 100 percent of me likes it.