More Than Water (13 page)

There’s currently a lull of students at the engineering library, so I’m using the opportunity to scan through the images I recently took for my final photography project. I’ve been working on my fire study for over a week, and I’m confident with the collection of frames and compositions. The purpose of this project was to show a situation or object that was on the opposite spectrum of our last study.

Fire and water are counterparts in almost every sense. One is gaseous and hot while the other is fluid and tends to do well at room temperature. In different realms on the color spectrum, one is generally thought of as red while the other is blue. Knowing this as well as the fact that they don’t mix, extinguishing one another upon contact, I’m attempting to show how they are similar. My study focuses on the fluidity of the flame in comparison to that of water.

Foster is currently in the stacks, helping a student, while I man the desk. It’s been a little over a week since our one-nighter, and right now, it’s like it was a surreal moment, more fiction than fact. Our first few shifts together were somewhat awkward, but we’ve been moving forward toward a better comfort level. There are occasions when I do glance in his direction, recalling his naked body, but I shake it off as hormones and curiosity.

There is definitely a strangeness to working with someone who you’ve seen in the nude with his full nakedness on you, in you, yet never had anything romantic with—and have no feelings of regret or assumptions for a relationship. One-night stands are more low maintenance than I thought, especially since he and I are on the same page about what occurred.

Our interactions aren’t exactly the same. There is a little more filter, like we’re both being careful not to cross any line, but working with him has been easy enough up to this point. Of course, whenever I enter the building, I ask him to turn around, so I can get a good look at his ass, but it’s only as an icebreaker for each shift. He happily obliges, shaking his head. I hope he’s not documenting my requests for a sexual harassment case.

With my laptop on my knees, I continue to scroll through the images, noting my favorites for print. The assignment is due next week, and I plan to get most of the printing and matting done this weekend.

“That’s hot,” Foster comments over my shoulder, leaning across the counter. “New project?”

“Yeah,” I answer, focused. “It’s for my photography final. I’m finally getting a good grasp on this one.”

“So, you went with fire this time? No wind or earth?” He rounds the desk, taking his seat next to me, scooting closer to his monitor.

“No.” I shut my laptop and shove it back into its bag. “It just kind of worked out that way since I did water on my last shoot.”

“Ah, you needed to do that opposites thing?”

“How did you know?” I ask, straightening in my chair.

“It’s kind of obvious. Water and fire don’t mix on any level.” He pauses in contemplation. “Well, that’s not true now that I think about it. Chemically speaking, they can work aside one another. It’s a battle but possible.”

“You’ve gone all scientist on me again. It’s not complex. One is hot, and the other is wet. The end.”

“Sorry, bad habit.” Foster removes the dark frames from his face, placing them next to the keyboard. “I was just thinking that, even though fire and water generally work against one another—one always winning the war, so to speak—there are some environments where they can coexist. It’s all about having the right chemistry.”

“Well, I’ll take your word for it.” I roll my seat forward to reach my monitor. “You do know chemistry a lot better than I do.”

“Yes, we established that pretty well about a week ago.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But my knowledge of Newton’s first law totally kicked your ass.”

“No, that was EJ Cunning’s law mixed with my desire to see you kiss your friend.”

“Call it what you like.”

“I almost feel like I should call it cheating.”

“Fozzie.”

“Evelyn.”

“I outwitted you. That’s all that was, nothing more.” I playfully grin in his direction, tucking a fading rouge lock behind my ear. “Besides, if I recall, you still had a happy ending to the evening.”

“And…” He exhales. “You went there.”

“So, it wasn’t happy?”

“No comment.”

“That’s what I thought.” Smug, I return my attention back to the computer screen. “Cunning wins again.”

He clicks the mouse a few times, and I take the cue that our little conversation is over. With not much to do, I pull out a book on Van Gogh for my thesis, wanting to do a little more research on his childhood, hoping to find a way to properly connect it to his work.

“It wasn’t bad,” Foster remarks out of nowhere.

“What did you say?”

He chuckles. “I said it wasn’t bad. The ending. The one you were referring to last week.”

I flip a page. “Well, when they end the way yours did, most people consider them to be very good, fantastic.” I peek at his concentrated profile. “Orgasmic even.”

“True.” He stays focused on the monitor, holding his mouth tight so not to show any delight in our conversation. “If I recall correctly, yours was pleasant also.”

“No complaints here.”

“That’s good to hear.” A huge grin begins to form across his mouth.

“Don’t look so self-assured,” I remark.

“Never,” he teases.

We work together in silence as I’m reading the biography, and he’s conducting online research. Finals are right around the corner for the entire university. Two students approach the desk, but Foster is able to quickly point them in the right direction, and they are gone soon after.

When they’re out of earshot, my coworker turns to me and questions, “So, when is your project due?”

“My thesis?” I ask, assuming he’s inquiring about the book in my hand. “I plan on turning it in early in the spring quarter.”

“No, not that. Your photography study on fire?”

“Next week. Most of the shots are already set, and I’ll be matting them this weekend.”

“I see.” He edges his chair further under the desk.

“Why do you ask?” I ponder, closing my reading material.

“You got me thinking about fire and water. We’ve done some interesting experiments in the lab, actually igniting fire in water. It was quite a sight.”

“I bet.”

The wheels in my head begin to turn, curious as to how a shot like that might look through a lens. I’ve seen welding underwater on TV, and it’s rather powerful. Those big fishing boats always have to fix something. I wonder if what Foster was referring to is anything like that.

Now, I need to know because to actually capture fire and water—heat and that which calms it cooperating for an instant, working side by side, showing their battle as well as their likeness—in the same frame would be miraculous.

“Was it a hard experiment?” I ask innocently.

“Not technically. There’s not a lot of heating or cooling. It’s just mixing together the right substances. It’s extremely dangerous though, and it lets off a highly toxic gas.”

“Oh,” I utter, mildly disappointed. “So, it’s not something you should try at home?”

“No,” he stresses, “not at all. Is there a reason you were asking?”

“Yeah but never mind. The idea of gagging myself to death with toxic fumes in order to take a picture doesn’t sound all that appealing.”

He lifts his frames back to his face and then turns toward me. “If you’re really interested, I can find out if one of my professors can conduct the experiment for you. It needs to be done in a controlled setting for safety.”

“No, that’s okay. It was just a thought. I already have some great shots, but the concept is really different. Maybe some other time.”

“Let me know if you change your mind. I’d be happy to ask someone in the department.”

“Thanks.” I reopen my book.

No less than a minute later, Foster says to me, “You know, if you’re really interested, I might be able to show you a different experiment where fire exists underwater.”

“How? I thought you said it was dangerous.”

“Not like this. There’s some smoke involved but nothing that will make you sick, as long as the room is ventilated. I think it will get you the shot you want.”

“So, what is it? Can I do it myself?”

He tightens his mouth. “It’s probably best that I conduct the experiment for you.”

“Oh, so it’s all
sciencey
and stuff.”

Foster laughs. “Sort of.” He grabs a nearby pencil and a piece of notepaper from the desk and scribbles on it. “Here,” he says, handing me the slip. “That’s my number. If you want, give me a call, and we can set something up, so I can show it to you this weekend.”

I skeptically peer at him. “This weekend?”

“Yeah. I’m busy until then, but Sunday would likely work.”

With the small square paper between my fingers, I drop my hand into my lap. “Why are you offering to help me?”

“Why not?”

“Won’t it be weird? You know, after…”

“Could be. I don’t know.”

I gaze at the numbers.

“I just figured,” he continues, “since we’re friends and all, I could act like one by helping you out. Isn’t that what friends do?”

“Yeah, it is.” I fold the paper in half, stuffing it into my bag. “Will you be naked this time, friend?”

He guffaws. “Don’t you wish?”

“One can only hope.”

At the top of the steps, I knock lightly on the russet-colored hardwood door of Foster’s apartment on this Sunday afternoon, as we scheduled. The door swings inward, revealing Foster dressed in a gray hooded sweatshirt and a pair of denim pants, covered by a generic red-and-white-striped cookout apron. Strands of damp hair haphazardly lie across his brow, accentuating his sapphire eyes lacking the omnipresent dark frames.

“Hey,” he says, adjusting his hair back into place. “You’re right on time.”

“There’s a saying that punctuality is a virtue.” I lift my right shoulder, adjusting the strap of my camera bag.

He narrows his gaze. “No, there isn’t.”

“Sure there is—according to the preachings that I’ve read.”

“Preachings? I’m starting to wonder where you learn some of the things you spout.”

“It’s all in the
Prostitute’s Guide to Vegas
,” I say, like it’s the most obvious statement in the world. “Time is of the essence when you get paid by the hour, and clients are calling out God’s name while worshiping your body at a budget price. There are even coupons for regulars.”

Foster’s mouth twitches, the corner betraying the hint of a smile. “I might need to get a copy of that book.”

“Feel free to borrow mine.”

“So generous of you.” He steps aside. “You’re so full of shit. C’mon in.”

I enter the apartment, scanning his residence for the first time without alcohol or hormones interfering. The small white living space is sparse but neat, showcasing an overstuffed sofa and a side chair, and at the room’s center is a television of average size, in comparison to what I’ve seen in other college man apartments. The walls are bare, save for a very large antique-finished framed print of the periodic table of elements.

Should have seen that coming.

The furnishings are typical for a male apartment—simple and muted. Nothing stands out. This place is a blank canvas begging for some color.
The open floor plan flows into a kitchen at the right with a small prep island in its center.

With my tripod and camera bag in hand, I follow Foster into the kitchen area. On the dark granite countertop of the center island rests three large clear glass beakers of different sizes and configurations, filled about three-quarters full with water.

“So, I take it, this is where the magic is going to happen?” I ask, stopping in front of the trio of glasses.

“Yeah. I’m not fully set up yet, but you should get the best lighting in here.”

Dropping my bag to the ground, I slug out of my coat, lay it over one of the barstools, and begin to set up my equipment while Foster opens up the kitchen window and then pulls out a large glass bowl from a lower cabinet.

“How’s this going to work?” I question, attaching my camera to the top of the three-legged base. “Do I need to do anything?”

“No,” he responds, shutting off the faucet once the bowl is sufficiently filled. “I’ll conduct the…experiment, and you can just take the pictures.”

“Will it be really fast, or will I be able to get a few shots?”

“You should be able to get plenty. The burn lasts a significant amount of time—about thirty seconds—but I’ve set up four environments in case you don’t get everything you need the first time.”

“Four sounds like plenty.” I raise the height of the neck on the tripod.

“I hope so.” He laughs. “I only have enough materials for four.” Placing the clear bowl next to the beakers, he continues, “I’ll be right back. I need to get the secret ingredient.”

“It’s not illegal, is it?”

“No, but these things are really hard to come by this time of year.”

I peek after Foster as he makes his way around the partition and enters his bedroom at the end of the hall. Two other doors down the narrow space remain slightly ajar. One at the end of the apartment is clearly the bathroom, and from my previous visit, I recall the other as being a second bedroom.