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“Can also be a gas or solid.” He taps his forehead. “My gigantic brain has just informed me that it’s two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. I did pass basic chemistry. It’s kind of simple.”
“Chemically simple, of course,” I playfully mock. Then, I return to shooting my photography assignment. “Each shot should be more than just a picture. If done correctly, within each frame, a tiny tale will unfold. The composition should make people question their purpose in life and the meaning of life and existence in general. Art is a way to convey what words cannot.
“It’s not simple, like you said. It’s not just two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. It’s more than water. It’s a story—a living and breathing substance beyond the reflective surface.” I snap an image and then return my focus to Foster, who is pondering over the fountain before us. “Sure, you joked about it before, but in some ways, I really am exploring the meaning of life through a lens.”
Foster grins. “Damn, Evelyn, that’s kind of deep.”
“Thanks, Fozzie.”
I pick up the tripod with the camera attached and maneuver around the base of the fountain to the other side, wanting to capture every angle. Lining up my shot, I play with the shutter speed, taking longer-exposed shots to create a sense of motion.
“So, why water?” Foster asks at my side, continuing our conversation.
“What do you mean?”
“There has to be a reason you chose it, right? According to you, it’s more than just molecules, and you think it tells a story—or at least, you want it to tell one.”
“I don’t know.” I feel a pang in my gut. I snap another shot and then peek over my shoulder at him. “I guess I’ve always had a thing for water. Ever since I was little, um…I’ve kind of been obsessed.”
“Fond childhood memories?”
“Hardly,” I huff. “Kind of the opposite.”
“Oh?”
“Growing up, my family and I used to spend a lot of time on the water, and I hated it. Every trip was torture.”
“I thought you said you loved the water.”
“I do. My mother, on the other hand, is…never mind.”
“Ah,” he says, like he’s had a eureka moment, “mommy issues.”
“Total understatement.” I laugh to myself, realizing how open I’m being about the subject. “It would have likely taken years of therapy to come up with that diagnosis, and you figured it out in less than three minutes.”
“I must be a genius.”
“I told you that you had a big brain,” I remark over my shoulder.
“You sure did.” He massages his temples. “And it’s getting bigger by the minute.”
“That’s your ego inflating.”
“Doubtful.” He lowers his gaze toward the ground, kicking at the cobblestones. “Would you like me to send you a bill for my psychological services?”
“Please do. I’ll forward it along to my accountant.”
He adjusts his glasses over the bridge of his nose. “So, what? When you went on family vacations, did you have visions of tying a rock to your mother’s ankle and dropping her to the bottom of the ocean?”
“That’s kind of morbid. And no, I didn’t. I always hoped to escape into the water myself.” The same pang hits my stomach once again. It’s a new-to-me nervousness. “Do you promise not to laugh?”
“No,” he utters curiously, “but I’ll try not to.”
“Great. I can’t believe I’m telling you this. It sounds so silly, but part of me always hoped that I could turn into a mermaid and plunge into the depths of the sea forever.”
Foster tilts his head. “That doesn’t sound silly.”
“Really?”
