“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 Fost
er 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.
I duck back into the kitchen area when Foster emerges from his room with a small cardboard box in one hand and Scotch Tape in the other. Behind the camera, I adjust the lens, focusing on the container farthest on the left, assuming we will begin with that one.
“Where’s your roommate?” I ask, straightening from my bent position.
Foster opens the brown shoebox. “I don’t have one.”
“Then, why do you have a two-bedroom? Extra storage place? Mad scientist lab?”
“No.” He chuckles, pulling out a small brightly colored rectangular box from within the larger one. “I had one, but he graduated last year.”
“And you didn’t get a new one?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause I didn’t want a new one.”
“The rent must be very reasonable if you can afford not to have a roommate.”
He furrows his brow. “Yeah, it’s not too bad.”
Opening the end of the thin cardboard container, Foster withdraws a thin metal stick that is half-covered in a thick, dark powdery-looking substance.
Glancing at the box, I ask, “Is that a sparkler?”
Lifting the item in question, he says, “Yes.”
“A sparkler? A kids firework?”
“You got it.” Reaching behind him, Foster opens a small side drawer, finding a long-nosed lighter, and he places it next to the tape on the countertop. “Are you ready for some magic?”
“So, where’s the science in this? What did you do? Lace it with some kind of coating?”
“Nope, it’s just a regular old sparkler.” He pulls the tape, sticking it to the firework’s tip, and begins to wrap two of the sticks together. “They contain oxidizers, which allow them to burn, and the tape will assist in keeping it lit underwater.”
Skeptical, I narrow my glare as his hands finish wrapping up the sticks. “Is this something you learned at school?”
“No.” He chuckles, placing a pair of safety goggles over his face. “At a fraternity party, freshman year.” He flips on a nearby fan.
“What’s that for?”
“Ventilation. The smoke isn’t pleasant. Are you ready?”
“Sure. Why not?” I bend at the waist, peering at the large glass bowl through my camera, checking the aperture speed once again. “Let’s see this magic you speak of.”
A crackle ignites in the air for a few seconds before the metallic spray of the lit sparkler appears through my camera’s lens. Then, without warning, Foster plunges the firework into a bowl, dimming the silver-white sparks. Fiery hues of amber, tangerine, and crimson-honey explode through the clear liquid in a burst of magnified color, all contained by the glass barrier. It’s a display of liquefied flame and flowing color.
My finger presses the shutter button, quick and furious, diligently trying to capture the moment unseen by the human eye. The water begins to cloud into a thick, muggy gray haze, and the color deepens to a dense shade of charcoal in a matter of seconds. Then, the light is gone. All that is left is a blackened stick submerged in the coal-like water.
“Holy hell,” I whisper, stunned by the demonstration. Coming out from behind the camera, I tell Foster, “That was so much cooler than I thought it would be.”
“I thought you might like it,” he replies, prideful. He retrieves three more of the fireworks and begins to prep them like he did the first. “Do you want to see it again?”
“Absolutely.”
Twice more, Foster plunges fire into water, showing me in a somewhat artistic, scientific, and playful way how, under the right conditions, two forces at constant odds can miraculously morph into a harmonic symphony, despite their battle. Each time, I’m amazed even though it’s a juvenile trick learned at a houseful of college boys.
This is an act of chemistry, and its beauty enraptures me.
“Last one,” Foster announces as we both edge down the length of the counter toward the tall and skinny beaker. “Just beware. This one might get a little more…vibrant.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“The flame will always seek more air in order to thrive. The design of this thin cylinder will elongate that process.” He finishes wrapping the sparklers. “It’s best just to show you.”
“This should be interesting.”
A small blue flame appears at the tip of the lighter when Foster clicks the button, and I’m struck with an idea.
“Wait,” I demand. “Can we shut off the lights for this one?”
“Sure.” He sets down the lighter and flicks the switch, plunging the room into relative darkness, and then he ignites the piercing blue flame again. “Ready?”
Peering through the camera, I prepare for the impending wonderment. “I’m not sure, but let’s do it.”
The crinkling sound of the fireworks being lit spurs into the silence. Into the frame, bright white shards spread from the tips of the sparklers, subdued for just an instant, as they are plummeted into the glass tube. Then, a violent stream of apricot and umber fill the cylinder from top to bottom, filling the encased fluid.
As the sparklers continue to burn, the flame rises higher upon itself, and the fingers of heat lick their way to the top, bursting beyond the water’s surface. The fire is breaking free, trying to grow and thrive in a place it’s meant to reside, searching to gain its full potential outside of the stifling wetness, gasping for air beyond the suffocation.
The fire grows so robust and fierce, and the angry heat causes the water to boil, creating a fury of passion.
It’s intense, powerful in a way unlike the other experiments.
Suddenly, a jagged horizontal line severs through the upper third of the glass, breaking it into two.
For a moment, the flame expands into the air, a wafting surge of hope freeing itself from the glass prison, and then it disappears.
My camera captures every moment until the sparkler dims in the murky water, just like the ones before it.
“Wow,” I gasp, left in the darkness.
Foster flips the switch, illuminating the room once again. “See what I meant?”
“Yeah,” I sputter, overwhelmed. “Holy shit!”
He laughs.
I shake my head, still not totally comprehending what just occurred.
“Looks like this one is done,” he states, gathering the two broken pieces of glass from the split beaker.
Stepping around my equipment, I pull out a paper towel from the roll on the counter. “Let me help,” I say, wiping up the watery debris from the granite surface.
Together, we quickly clear the area and clean up the mess. For the most part, it was contained within each of the glasses, save for one.
“Do you think you got anything worth using?” Foster removes his apron and sets it on the counter next to the goggles.
“I’m sure I did.” I release the camera from the tripod. “Let’s take a look.”
Rounding the counter, Foster peers over my shoulder as I scroll through the images I took over the last fifteen minutes. There are nearly two hundred digital frames, and even though I was the one taking the pictures, the collection marvels me.
Stills of bubbles, colors, and movement captured by the sophistication of the high-speed lens fill the viewing screen. The juxtaposition of light and water are beyond gorgeous, and the symmetry to poetry is a symphony in the making.
I’m breathless.
It’s more than water.
It’s more than fire.
It’s life surviving and flourishing where it shouldn’t, where it couldn’t.
It’s almost…a miracle.
“That’s what it looks like through a camera?” he asks, his warm breath tickling my ear.
“Pretty am
azing, huh?”
“It’s almost…”
Turning my head, I grin when our gazes meet. “Like art? Like…a story?”
Tilting closer, Foster’s heated mouth unexpectedly touches mine, sending a chilling spark along the surface of my skin, and I savor the taste of his air upon my tongue.
Releasing my lips from his, I peer up at his dumbfounded appearance mirroring my own.
“I thought we were friends,” I say, lowering my camera to the granite surface.
Foster’s chest rises and falls with an undertone of frustration. I’m unsure if it’s with me, himself…or something else. There are too many scenarios in this situation.
“We are,” he responds, still stunned. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s okay, Foster.” I gather my camera and then lean toward the ground, putting it away in its case. “You’re a really good kisser, by the way.”
“You’re just saying that to tease me and make light of the situation. I’m not sure what I was thinking. It’s not like…”
“I know. And I wasn’t teasing you.” I rise, resting a butt cheek on the nearby stool. “You really are a good kisser.” I cross my arms and smirk. “You’re pretty good in the sack, too.”
“Okay, now, it’s getting weird.” He ponders over his shoulder and out the kitchen window. “Why not just take it a step further and say you wouldn’t mind having sex with me again? You know, because it was so great the first time.”
Pursing my lips, I try to contain my giddy thoughts. There’s a part of me that does find what Foster said as somewhat ludicrous, but the truth in his suggestion is undeniable.
I actually wouldn’t mind sleeping with him again.
He has a great body that feels spectacular against mine, and he’s definitely a hottie in his own way. Bumping and grinding with him was quite memorable, even while under the influence of libations, and all inhibitions, even though I tend to have very few, were pushed aside. Not to mention, sex with him was easy in the sense that I didn’t want anything more, and neither did he.
“I don’t think I would mind,” I spurt out.
“Shut up,” he quickly retorts, clearly finding my reply absurd.
“Fine. I’ll shut up then. No more talking from me.”
More Than Water Page 10
