She was a painter and he liked numbers

She basked in the colors of the artist's garden at giverny, the blending of the acrylics giving life to her already paint stained apron while his paper were filled with calculus and algebraic equations.

She showed her the perfect symmetry of the vitruvian but all he ever saw was translation, rotation and reflection while she saw the harmonious, beautiful proportion and balance.

They were never meant to be. She was never meant to be the anion to his cation. Ironically they were opposite but they never attract. They were constantly repelling each other.

The artist's flaw is to find pigments for his spotless canvas, which ought to be filled with the monochrome of his numbers, of the formulas of his own vanities...he doesn't breathe in seek of her dirty pallette.

He followed in the footsteps of Archimedes, Newton and Einstein while she focused on being better than Van Gogh, Picasso and Michaelangelo.

It took her days and months to study the pythagorean theorem just to solve the coordinates between their distance and the velocity in which their relationship would move on to.

Her artworks were slowly replaced with planes and divisions of distance over speed just to find the time of when she would stop trying to reach him, her paintbrush and canvas replaced with calculators and protractors, still her formulas never reached him.

He never paid attention to her the time she cried under the starry night, nor the great wave of a burden his algebraic equations brought into her life.

Maybe they really were two separate lines, constantly moving in parallel directions, like the opposite sides of train rails, colliding with the pressure upon them.