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After returning the recently checked-in books to the stacks on the second floor of the engineering library, I descend the steps and join Foster behind the desk where he’s studying for his upcoming industrial chemistry processes exam. I needed a break from all his knowledge-spouting. My head might have gone into shutdown mode when he started to explain the specifics of enhancing metals with chemicals—otherwise known as smelting. I never should have asked what he was working on as a courtesy because he definitely got a geeky hard-on from talking about the science of the procedure. To me, the wordsmeltingsounds more like a drug-induced sniffing party than a sophisticated scientific process, but to each their own.
“Are things still going smelt-tastic?” I ask, taking a seat in the cushy gray chair and sliding over my book on surrealism.
“Smelt-errific,” Foster quips back, scratching the side of his head and shuffling his warm-brown hair over his ear. “So great that I’ve moved on to pyroprocessing. I’m on fire.”
“I’ll get the fire extinguisher.” I fan myself. “The heat of your brain is spilling over into my space.”
He peers at me oddly over his shoulder and then concentrates on his textbook.
Over the past month of working together, Foster and I have fallen into a comfortable pattern at the library. We complete our jobs independently, have occasional conversations, and do our school assignments in between. As far as coworkers go, he’s fairly easy to work with. He gives sporadic comments about my attire or hairstyle, and I, in return, ask falsely interested questions about complex molecular structures. He usually laughs because my inquiries are completely fiction and totally miss the mark.
“After you finish your flame-induced studying, do you want to help me reorganize the periodical section?” I ask, pulling my hair up into a ponytail. “The group of freshmen that was here finally left, and magazines are all over the place.”
“Should I put on my superhero cape?” He’s mocking me. “Is it a complete catastrophe?”
“Worse. The hydros might be mating with the motherboards soon. If we don’t fix it, engineers around the world might go ballistic.”
“Now, that would be a travesty.” He shuts his book and places it underneath the desk. “Let’s get on it before there’s any dangerous crossbreeding.”
Leaving the front-desk area together, we begin the process of gathering the magazines strewed about the library—on the chairs, windowsills, tables, and even on the floor. Within fifteen minutes, the entire section of periodicals is neat, clean, and alphabetized.
Returning to our seats, I pull out my notes to study for an exam on American artists in the 1920s. It’s not my favorite time period at all. I prefer the Renaissance period.
Before settling my brain into study mode, I take out my phone to check for any texts or emails. There’s a voice mail from Wolfgang. He’s likely just confirming that I’ll pick him and Jasper up once I get off from work, so we can go down to the square and get the much-needed shots for my photography assignment.
I listen to the message.
“EJ, it’s Wolfgang. Listen, something came up. Call me as soon as you can.”
That’s where the voice mail ends. The tone of his voice was a little…tentative…urgent. Without any pause, I dial his number, and the phone rings twice before he answers.
“Hey, EJ,” Wolfgang says, somber. “I’m…”
“What’s going on?” I ask, slightly nervous.
“I’m a full-blown idiot.” He exhales heavily. “I’m in the emergency room.”
“Oh, crap. Holy shit! Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine. My ego is a little bruised though. I cut my hand.”
“Is it bad?”
“Sort of. There was a lot of blood.”
“Shit. What happened?”
He groans. “Jasper and I went back to my place to have another drink, and I decided it would be a good time to slice a pineapple to bring out the flavor of the alcohol. Apparently, drinking and slicing don’t go hand in hand because I sliced mine instead of the pineapple.”
“Holy fuck!”
“Tell me about it. I’m a total moron, and now, I’m waiting to get stitches. Some date, huh?”
I shake my head. “It’s not your finest. That’s for sure.”
“It’s pretty pathetic.”
“At least you had a hottie by your side the whole time.”
