Dear Calculus Student,

I'm writing to you in the hope that you can help me somehow. I don't know; maybe no one can help me. It's such a sad, sad situation.

You see, I'm in love with a woman who walks on water -- no, even better -- who walks on air. If I'm Dante, she's my Laura. If I'm Romeo, she's my Cinderella. I would do anything, just anything, to get the chance to fall under her calm gaze, to feel the cool touch of her hand on my shoulder, and to hear the sound of her melodic voice whispering, "Good job, Myron!"

I can't begin to describe her magnificence, her luminescence, her ever-present joie-de-vivre. The first time I saw her is a day that is branded on my memory. We were both strolling out of doors on the grounds of the Bill Buckner Public Elementary School # 43; she was 8 and I was a full year older, being 9 years of age. She was standing on first base in game of kick-ball, and I could tell by her easy grace, the way she gently ground her heel into the foot of the defensive player and coolly spat in her hands, that she was the one for me. I only glimpsed her for that one moment; I never saw her again after that day. But little could I have guessed how closely our lives would have become inextricably linked!

For years afterwards, Philomena Willoby was my muse and my inspiration. I confided in my part-time employer, Mr. Gus Gusterson, the owner of Gusterson Hardware and Plumbing. He was a kindly old gentleman who loved tinkering with gadgets, especially if he could hook that gadget up to a clock. In spite of his fascination with keeping track of hours and minutes, he always had time to listen to a young man in anguish, and he reassured me that if I would just wait, things would turn for the best. "Just you wait and see, Myron my lad, just you wait. Things are going to turn out for the best," he would say. And he would give me a big, slow wink.

The years rolled by, as is their habit, and just after my eleventh birthday I heard the tragic news that Mr. Gusterson had died while trying to fend off burglars who had entered Gusterson Hardware and Plumbing. The whole town mourned his untimely death.

Then I heard the second part of the news. Mr. Gusterson had left me money in his will, with an unusual provision. The lawyers explained that I would not get to spend the money until I came of age, at 21. In the meanwhile, they placed the money into a "fixed rate CD", which means, they explained, the money would earn interest at a constant rate. When I turned 21, I would get to keep the original amount of money, but all the interest that my money had earned would go to my beloved, my Philomena Willoby.

Here then was the reason for Mr. Gusterson's phlegmatic patience, his calm reassurance, his carefully delivered winks. Philomena was not lost to me. He had bound our futures together through the means of a fixed rate CD. I praised his wisdom and his goodness to me.

Over the years, even as I anticipated the happy day when Philomena and I would join together to share the money (and, I hoped, our lives), I began to grieve over the sacrifice that Gus Gusterson had made on my behalf. Each bank statement I received was a reminder that my wise mentor was gone, and the more of these I got, the more unfair it seemed to me that my own selfish interests would be gratified because of his untimely murder.

After the first year of the decade that followed, I resolved to look at these statements no longer. I made a note to myself, which reads as follows:

This year, the CD earned $438.30. Since it's a fixed rate CD, this means Philomena will get $4383.00, even more than I will get. Won't she be thrilled!

I kept this note, carefully preserved, and filed all the remaining bank statements, unopened, in a cardboard box.

As my 21st birthday approached, I procured Philomena's address from the lawyers and wrote her an epistle to describe the provisions of the gentle Gus Gusterson's will. I made a touching allusion to the kickball game which had altered the course of my fate. I also sent her the cardboard box with all of the bank statements, so that she would know in advance the generosity of our kindly benefactor.

And then disaster struck. I received a check from the bank for $11,406.14. This is eleven thousand (and four hundred six) dollars! (And fourteen cents). According to the note I wrote myself nine years ago, this check should have been no more that eight thousand, eight hundred!

At first, it might seem a good thing to get more money than I had anticipated, but you haven't realized the calamity that awaits:

1. I have no idea how much of this money is due to Philomena.
2. Philomena has the bank statements, so she does know.

I can't bear the thought of being an ignorant bumbler in front of my future beloved. Could you please, please help me figure out how much of this eleven thousand, four hundred six dollars (and fourteen cents) is mine, and how much of it belongs to Philomena?

We have an appointment to meet on September 26. As you can imagine, I'm all atingle to see the physical incarnation of the woman who has haunted my dreams all these years. I'll need the numbers by then, if you don't mind.

Yours most desperately,

Myron Sopher

P.S. I am trying my hand at poetry. Can you think of any words that rhyme "Philomena", "Willoby", or "luminescent"?