One. Two. Two Again.

by Bilal Farad Muhammad

One. Two. Two again.

Roseline counted repeatedly but would never speak the number three. The number three might as well have killed her father. It was always “two again” but it was never three.

Today was different, however. But only in the way that every other day was typically the same. Today was “two again” but it wasn’t three. Days usually aren’t different for Roseline ever, which is what made this day less boring.

You need to understand, Roseline is and/was an unremarkable girl with no days different from the next, ever. Ever. She could count to three, but wouldn’t. Downright refused to. Refuses still, if she did when she did or does. Always “two again” and you can imagine how little patience anyone might have for a steady diet of “two again” and never three.

Because honestly what’s wrong with three? What’s wrong with Roseline? Is/was and is she, will she be, could she explain or admit fault or accept accountability of, can she accept and be honest about the singular idea that she idealizes herself as someone who is somehow above the concept of numbers? Could someone be so arrogant? She must think she knows better than ancient civilizations that only just somehow managed to domesticate human beings into divine self calculating miracles of thought and life. Surely our little Rosie knows something we don’t.

But that’s the fuckin thing about it. Rosie, our incompetent and adorable Roseline, she’s no rebel. She doesn’t refuse the number three. She herself, precious Roseline, does not somehow think herself higher than numbers, prime or otherwise. She couldn’t tell you what a square root is/was, not that she wouldn’t, but she can’t, inshallah, and the reason “two again” is a patented catch phrase that financially safeguarded her, allegedly, well into her supposed final years, can anyone, excuse me because you actually cannot, so let me rephrase; nobody can judge dear, sweet, childish Roseline’s challenged concept of numerical values.

Why would you want to?

Here are the facts:

You do not know Roseline. And furthermore you only think you’ve digested a substantial amount of information about her, even though your handsome narrator has said nothing of value.

This is snake oil. You are the snake. You have had your own oil sold back to you even though you always had it.

What is “two again” and how is it not accurate? Ask Rosie. She probably couldn’t tell you. Not that she wouldn’t, she’s no rebel, just that she cannot, allegedly.