For Spock, life is easy.
For Spock, life is logical.
One plus one equals two.
Always.
When and only when one plus one equals two, is his life easy.
Equivalence.
First proposition is true, second proposition is true; the whole proposition is true.
Logic's rules demand so.
Conjunction. Disjunction. Zeroes and ones, all put in nice, orderly columns. Truths and lies.
He solves chemical equations and smiles at his results.
No problems. No variables.
Except one.
In Spock's life of black and white, there is only one variable which he can't understand even if he tries hard. A grey that is too out of place for him to ignore it.
Said variable is that captain with less than pure thoughts when it comes to some of the female gender. He is neither a zero, nor a one; he is a vortex of both, also something else that bears no description; the nature of his being is not understandable.
And he laughs at Spock's view of the world.
"You know that one plus one doesn't always equal two, you know," he will joke, eyes sparkling with mirth, not really comprehending the blows he strikes at the his comrade's world (belief made of concrete, which can't be moved).
Spock looks down at the chemical equations he has to solve so that they can get the right sort of fuel. Some are surprisingly easy, with only one product. Simple. Logical.
Unlike that man.
His eyes ghost over the last /laughably effortless/ chemical equation. Seriously, he thinks, this is two easy: two reactants, one product. Way too easy.
One and one on the left side.
One on the right side.
An arrow in between. One and one; one's the answer.
Spock feels a headache coming, deduces that the world is far too complex to try to solve it (maybe he isn't to solve it) and in the same breath moves out to find Kirk.