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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.
