A pointed look that groped and grabbed, despite, or maybe even because of the crowd around the playing field. Home field advantage and this is not your home. This is a math class. Do you remember that day? The day when that math teacher, or was he a wrestling coach, taught the whole class that you were the sum of your parts. He was the math teacher, how could we question a formula he taught us?
Decades later, when the sum of your parts has been altered, all the accounts of the past have to be recounted, ledgers balanced, coupons redeemed.
Mull this over. With tea maybe, probably an oolong because this is a time to recognize the subtle gifts of oxidation and fermentation. Of exposing things to air and waiting. Of letting things go off a little bit.
Air is your element now, with a flick of your wrist the axis shifts again, linear time becoming vertical, just long enough for the scales of justice to balance out. You leave that class again, but this time the mistress of a different kind of math.