Balls in the air
Ivo's fingers went slack as soon the reel started playing. His cigarette fell on the floor and he crushed it under the sole of his boots, pretending that was his intention all along.
In reality he couldn't stop looking at the kid on the reel, standing in front of a white board and solving a complicated looking mathematical equation with a serious, studious face.
He knew he was looking at himself. Not only because Ivan's learning difficulties meant that he would never be able to write so many numbers and letters in a row with such ease, but because some deeper sense of recognition tugged at him.
That was him as a child. No older than twelve, maybe. Blank-faced, wearing a nondescript white and grey uniform with the Parallax "PX" logo emblazoned on the chest.
Out of frame a disembodied voice said, "Very well, your proofs are getting cleaner."
"Thank you father," the Ivo on the screen said, his gaze never leaving the whiteboard.