Five is my favorite number, she says, because no matter how many times you multiply it by an odd number, you can always find it at the end of the product. 25. 35. 1975. Always in plain sight. I add that five kinda looks like a more rigid capital S. I guess, she says, as if I’ve totally missed the point. My favorite number is three, I say, because it looks like an eight chopped vertically in half. I don’t believe that’s why you like it, she says. At least I hope not. OK, I say, fine. I like it because I was born on the third. Because I was my parents’ third kid. Because my name starts with a C. She nods. She doesn’t say, Sounds like you just like yourself, but I know she’s thinking it.

She continues: I like five because you never lose it when it multiplies with something odd. And I think about saying, What if I’m even? Think about reminding her of the time she said I was nothing. Pointing out that five times any even number always ends in zero. But I’ve been trying lately not to be the guy who puts a finger on the outlier simply to be right. So instead I say nothing. Just listen. The number five makes me think that it wouldn’t be so terrible to have children, she says. That I’d still be me. Maybe some day, I say. Really, she says. How many should we have? Five, I say. That’s too many, she says. She waits for me to suggest the number three, to explain that it’s the next lowest odd number. But I don’t fall for the bait. I don’t stray from the prompt.