Hazard Equation

Risk is equal to value multiplied by vulnerability multiplied by hazard. It was all very sterile and matter of fact. Tristan sited the UNESCO definition of risk in volcanically active regions more succinctly than he had recited his vows.

“You’ve reduced it to an equation,” I was maybe unreasonably mad at him for this particular line of reasoning. He glanced at me as he moved to pass a scooter. But lights blinked behind, preceding the sound of the horn. He slid back into his place behind the old man in a blue blazer driving a hot pink scooter on the freeway.

“These people are crazy drivers,” Tristan shook his head in wonder and rolled down the window. If the effort was made to elicit an infusion of fresh air to the tight space of the car, it was countered by the suffocating effects of the car exhaust.

“I guess all life isn’t created equal,” I sucked at my lower lip and brought my knees to my chest, sitting in the passenger’s seat, partly because I could, and partly because the old man on the scooter and the car streaming by like firecrackers made me need the fetal position more than other times.

“Philosophically speaking, all life is, of course, important and invaluable,” Tristan considered the rearview mirror carefully before gunning the engine and nearly knocking the old man off the scooter. “But risk assessment isn’t philosophical.”

I followed the man with my eyes, his angry arms waving above his head and the flesh of his bulging around the strap of the helmet that had been decorated by a glittery Barbie sticker. “So you have to divorce yourself from humanity to assess risk,” I said while trying to apologize with wide and pleading eyes. The old man just swept his hand along the underside of his chin and went back to driving with perfect posture.

Tristan gave me a sidelong glance that I didn’t need to see to know it happened. It was the same look he gave me every time he thought I was being irrational and taking the core of something and twisting it so beyond its original shape that is truly become something else. Immediately following the look came a shrug and the refrain, “I’m close to my period.” But that only went so far in explaining my mood swings and sudden biting.

“Can we try to get along,” he asked in that hurt tone of his, the one that sounded like a dog that had step on a piece of glass its person had left on the ground intentionally for it to step up, and yelp over and limp to a corner lick the blood off its foot.

“Sure.”