The Taste of Pi

Originally published by The Not Quite Write Prize for Flash Fiction, January 2025 Honour Roll

The first time I hear her laugh of golden Fibonacci spirals, I know I have to meet her. Big parties are too much colour, noise, and flavour, but I’ll brave this one a few minutes longer just to learn her name. 

Anna.

It doesn’t suit her, I blurt, with her plaid miniskirt and starless midnight eyes. “Anna” tastes like cold canned peas. 

Her friends are outraged, but she throws her head back and laughs in golden ratio, and I forget that any other algorithm has ever existed. She says her full name is Anastasia—what does that taste like?

I roll the syllables on my tongue, testing every letter. The salty “A’s” and sweet “S’s”. The savoury “N” and spiced “T”. “I” is my least favourite vowel—so tart and overbearing—but in her name, it softens like butter. 

Brown sugar, I answer, and pi. I don’t clarify “the number” because at least “pie” is a flavour normal people can imagine. 

She leads me ‘round the room, introducing me to everyone and asking what each name tastes like. I don’t mind performing party tricks, with her hand in mine. 

Over hours, I tell her “Caroline” tastes of old lemonade, “Chase” of plums, and “Sasha” of ice scraped off the inside of a freezer. She tells me she’s a jazz musician and that she loves artists. She winks, saying I must be one, to have an imagination like this. 

I don’t know how to say “I’m not” and “I don’t”. That, even now, I’m running the numbers on our chances, and she’s too beautiful, and I’m too weird. This doesn’t end with “happily ever after”. I spare my heart and slip out while she’s getting us drinks. 

She finds me at work a week later. I startle when she slams open my office door with a victorious “ah-ha!” cracking the air with gold lightning. 

Coffee flies out of my “freak in the spreadsheets” mug as I throw my arms wide to cover the whiteboard of partial derivatives at my back. As if I can stop her from seeing how poorly suited we are, as if it matters after I ran away. 

She doesn’t look at the whiteboard, though, when she calls me an asshole. The word is a platform-booted kick to the sternum. She says she’s never been ditched before and needs to know what happened. 

She wants answers. 

The only kind I’m good at is numbers. 

So, I write up the odds of two people finding each other. Falling in love. Staying in love. Especially someone like me. Someone who knows the numbers on the whiteboard are written in blue marker but sees rainbows. Someone who approached the girl with the golden laugh and told her that her name tasted like peas.

Blue marker squeaks out lavender threes, navy eights, and crimson zeroes before her hand halts mine. 

“Run these numbers,” she whispers. 

Then she kisses me, and it’s music, and sugar, and pi, and gold— 

And flawless Fibonacci spirals.