More Than Water

by Renee Ericson

  I purse my lips. “Possibly.” I grin. “Maybe.” My smile widens. “Highly likely.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I scoot my chair under the desk and open up the application to check in the pile of books to my right.

  “I was hoping to talk to you about something,” I say, pulling over the top volume from the stack.

  “What’s that?” he asks, back to work and clicking his mouse.

  “It’s about a project I’m doing. It’s kind of a big one.”

  “Need help with more explosions?”

  “No. Actually…” I pause, trying to formulate the right way to phrase what I’m about to say without sounding too needy. “Do you remember when I…painted you?”

  His hand stills, and so does the rest of his body. “Sure,” he responds in a low tone. “I don’t think it’s something I’ll ever forget.”

  “Yeah.” I chew on my bottom lip. “Um…well, there’s this assignment for my art theory class, and I was planning on doing something like that.”

  Foster drops his hands to his thighs. “Okay…so, you’re planning to paint someone for an art assignment. Interesting.”

  “No, not that part.” I rest an elbow on the desk, adjusting my posture to give him my full attention. “I want to show the inner beauty of man through the vision of science. Kind of like what you and I were talking about but as an installation, and I was hoping that you would help me with it—if you have time, of course.”

  “What do you need from me? More time with my shirt off?”

  “Shirts can be optional.” I smirk. “But I was hoping you could answer some questions for me—”

  “Of course. No problem.”

  “And…I was hoping, maybe you would model for me, too?”

  He gives me a you’re-pushing-the-envelope-but-I’m-going-to-say-yes-anyhow look. “Don’t you think that skirts over the line of our friendship a little?”

  “And your dick in me doesn’t?”

  “Yeah…” he drawls, running a hand through his bronzed hair. “That bit of insertion might be, uh…testing some boundaries. We do have sort of a special friendship.”

  “Exactly. So, why not do me this favor as a special kind of friend and model for me?” I bat my eyes like one of those idiots with pouty ruby lips in the movies. “Pretty please? I’ll give you a cock smooch.”

  “Who am I to say no to an offer like that?” Foster tightens his mouth, unsuccessfully trying not to show his enjoyment. “Fine, I’ll model for you. And just so you know, I would have said yes, even without the cock smooch.”

  “Maybe that’s more for me.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to be the guy who takes away from your enjoyment.”

  A little more than two weeks have passed since the day I asked Foster to assist me in my art theory project. Today, he’s stopping by my apartment for me to make a mold of his chest and shoulders as part of the installment to later be casted and painted.

  Due to his ridiculously busy schedule and my own, most of our conversations of science, human anatomy, and simplistic elemental theories have been through texts and emails with minimal face-to-face time between his classes and activities. We’ve also had a few late-night sessions, but those were more of the social nature. Sometimes, it’s best to let the body rather than the mind lead toward one’s needs.

  Noticing the time, I close a fictional telling of Van Gogh’s childhood, a book that I’ve been combing through for minute details to finalize my art history thesis. My advisor suggested I give it a look before turning in my paper for another round of critiques. I’ve found a few obscure details about the man’s life to add to my paper but nothing profound, and I plan to turn in my final findings within the next month.

  Crossing the threshold of my bedroom, I enter into the kitchen where Chandra and Jeremy are reading silently next to one another at the bar. Now that the hustle and bustle of the start of the term has settled, he’s been over more often, and my roommate has never been so content.

  “Hey,” Chandra says, placing her book on the counter. “I didn’t know you were here. I thought it was your studio time now.”

  “It is,” I respond, filling a glass with water. “Foster is coming by though for mold-making. I thought it would be best to do it here rather than in a space with tons of people.”

  “That makes sense. He might not be comfortable with standing half-naked in front of a bunch of strangers.”

  I smile to myself at the thought of Foster without his shirt on. There certainly is something enjoyable about the image. “My thoughts exactly.”

  She straightens in her seat, giving a sidelong glance to Jeremy, who appears to be consumed in his book, not paying attention to us. “Do you need any help?”

  “Nah.” I sip the water. “I’m doing a simple one-step plaster. It should go pretty smoothly and only take about forty-five minutes. Easy-peasy.”

  She disengages herself from the stool, rounds the small countertop dividing us, and joins me within the small kitchen space. Gently grabbing my elbow, she leads me toward the other side of the room, out of Jeremy’s earshot.

  “What’s going on?” Chandra asks, her voice hushed.

  “Huh?” I question, resting my drink on the counter.

  “Are you two dating?”

  “Who?”

  “You and this Foster guy. I get that he’s helping you with your work, but you two have been spending a lot of time together lately.”

  “Is that a problem?” I ask, feeling defensive and caught off guard.

  “Of course it isn’t. You’ve just been so vague about him, and he’s not in any of your classes, so it’s a little odd to me that he would be modeling for you. I was just wondering if something was going on.”

  “I work with the guy. We’re friends. He’s helping me out as a friend. That’s all.”

  “Okay…” She gives me a look of surrender. “But I know you’re sleeping with him. You aren’t as sneaky as you think.”

  I exhale, dropping my hands to my thighs. “Go ahead and give me the lecture. I know you want to.”

  “No lecture. You can sleep with whomever you want. I’m just wondering if there’s a reason you aren’t telling me about what’s going on.”

  I peek in Jeremy’s direction, confirming that he’s paying us no mind. “We’re fucking, all right? Happy?”

  “Do you even like him?”

  “Of course I do, but…we’re just…”

  “Just what?”

  “It’s…I don’t know. He’s my friend. It’s not the kind of relationship you’re trying to insinuate. I didn’t want to put a label on it. Plus, it’s crude to call him my fuck buddy.”

  “Why? That’s what you two are, right? Fuck buddies?”

  “I guess.” I shrug, averting my focus to the top of the glass where the non-rippling water lies still in the perfect shape of a circle, constricted and in control.

  Chandra takes a step back, examining me for more than a comfortable moment, drilling me with uninhibited judgment. “I know that look.”

  “What look?”

  “I’ve seen this before. You bottle your shit up so tight that it’s like no one can see it, not even you, but I can. You’re in denial, and you like him way more than you’re letting on—or maybe even more than you realize. You’re trying so hard to fool yourself that you don’t even see it.”

  “Are you kidding?” I pull her out of the kitchen and into the hallway to ensure our conversation is way out of the relative hearing space of Jeremy. “Have you seen him? He’s so not my type. The guy lives and breathes formulas and science. He likely even has a pocket protector. He’s neatly contained in a square box, and I’m a glop of grape jelly, splattered all over the floor on a good day. We aren’t exactly compatible.”

  “Then, why have you been spending so much time with him?” She crosses her arms and raises her brow. “And don’t tell me it’s for your project. I’m not stupid
. This all started before break, and there was no art theory class last quarter.”

  “Maybe it’s the sex.”

  “Must be really great then.”

  “Shit yeah, it is. The best I’ve ever had.”

  “The best you’ve ever had?” she challenges.

  “Shut up,” I say in an attempt to halt the conversation.

  “Maybe it is the sex, but I’d be willing to bet that it’s a little more than that.”

  “You’ve been reading too many women’s magazines and self-help articles.”

  “Or maybe I see something between you two that you don’t.”

  Bringing my hand to my head, I press my fingertips into my temple. “Why are you giving me such a hard time about this?”

  “Honestly? Because I’m afraid you’re going to get hurt. This whole thing just reeks of a mess. Friends with benefits? Someone is always on the losing end of these things. They never end well.”

  “Yeah, well, not with me. I’ve got it covered.”

  “Then, maybe he’ll be the one to get hurt.”

  “I won’t let that happen,” I tell her with the utmost conviction.

  She laughs silently to herself, shaking her head. “Complete denial.”

  After my little discussion with Chandra, she and Jeremy retreated to her room, and I corralled myself in the living area, waiting for Foster to arrive.

  Her words did nothing but frustrated the hell out of me. She has no idea about the relationship, or lack thereof, that Foster and I have grown into. Sure, we might have become closer over the past few months, but we’re still nothing more than friends. Well, there is a little more, but he and I have an understanding.

  Screw her and her stupid probing. She’s making a mountain out of a molehill.

  There’s a light knock at the door.

  That’s Foster.

  Shaking out my hands, I step toward the dark wooden entrance and dispose of Chandra’s ludicrous suggestions in order to concentrate on the task at hand. Foster is here to help me, and I don’t need her illogical ideas flooding my mind. Those are her opinions and not mine.

  Opening the door, I greet the man whose form is exceedingly familiar. I’ve been sketching him for weeks now. It’s almost like my hands have some semblance of muscle memory to all his angles.

  “Hey, thanks for coming.” I step back to allow him to enter, noticing a surge of cold sweat erupting on my palms.

  “No problem,” Foster says, joining me inside.

  I close the door and wipe the uncalled for embarrassing moisture from my hands. Then, I proceed through the apartment with Foster on my heels, and we head toward my bedroom where all the supplies have been set up and arranged. Crossing the threshold, I pick up the apron from a nearby chair, loop it over my head, and tie the straps around my waist.

  “This isn’t really what I was expecting,” Foster remarks, slowly shutting the door behind him. “Are you planning on killing me?”

  My mouth slacks. “What? No!”

  “This place looks like a kill room. There’s enough plastic in here to bag a body—or ten.”

  “Funny.” I turn up the heat, adjusting the thermostat over his shoulder to make the room more comfortable for his soon-to-be lacking attire. “There will be no killing. I promise. Now, take off your shirt.”

  “You’re so commanding.”

  “At times.”

  Foster drops his bag to the floor and unzips the main compartment. He shifts through the contents, finds what he’s looking for, and holds out his arm, presenting me with a small bundle of art brushes wrapped in a red ribbon.

  “What is this for?” I ask, taking the offering.

  “I saw these at a supply store the other day when I was…getting something for a lab assignment, and I thought you might like them,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

  “Thanks,” I utter, confused. “That’s considerate.”

  “You’re welcome. You go through them all the time. I just figured…you could use more.”

  My thumb grazes the tips of the soft bristles, fanning them one by one, as Foster and I both stare at the unexpected gift in my hand. The tips have a velvety smooth texture that is pliable to my touch. I revel in their untainted newness. There’s something special about the clean fibers, like they hold future memories waiting in my dreams. Who knows what these will create?

  “So, should we get started?” Foster questions, refocusing our attention to the task at hand. “I have a class and need to leave in about an hour.”

  “Yeah, of course.” I set the gift on the desk. “I don’t want you to be late. Thank you again so much for doing this.”

  “Sorry to rush you, and you’re more than welcome,” he says, removing his glasses and resting them next to the gift on the desk.

  “I hope you aren’t missing anything to be here.”

  “Just a club meeting, but it’s not a big deal.”

  “You didn’t need to do that. We could have arranged to meet another time.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Foster pulls the blue knit sweater and gray T-shirt with a comic book character print over his head and then shoves them into his bag. When he rises, a sudden sense of discomfort whips through me from the sight of his skin, and I avert my attention toward the stack of supplies laid out for the mold.

  Don’t let Chandra get into your head.

  Foster proceeds to strip off his pants, leaving on only a pair of form-fitting underwear that I requested he wear for this moment.

  “Do I need to take these off, too?” he asks, pointing to the gray cotton covering very little of his body.

  “No,” I barely squeak. “You can leave those on. I only plan to plaster to your hip bones. We can roll them down a little if needed.”

  “K. Where do you want me?”

  Pointing toward the center of the room, in the middle of the plastic sheeting on the floor, I tell him, “Right here.”

  Foster takes his place, standing where directed. Crouching down, I sift through my stack of supplies, pilfering a small jar of petroleum jelly.

  Holding the lubricant in his direction, I ask, “Did you want to put it on or have me do it?”

  “You should.” He pauses, humor dancing along the edge of his features. “Lube is more your specialty.”

  “Right,” I state plainly, surprising even myself. This is banter 101, and I’m failing miserably.

  Popping off the lid, I submerge my forefinger and middle finger into the gelatinous substance and extract a heaping glob.

  “This might be a little cold.” I show him the thick pile of goop. “Sorry in advance.”

  He nods.

  Foster flinches slightly when I dab the cool jelly onto the warm area of his body just above his pectoral, but he soon relaxes to my touch as I draw tiny circles over a two-inch diameter. When he appears to be used to the temperature, I gently begin to spread the protective barrier over the rest of his recently shaven skin.

  I had advised him to remove the hair from every place the plaster would touch, and I’m glad he took my suggestion. Otherwise, the disengaging process could be painful.

  It doesn’t take much time for me to cover his shoulders, arms, chest, ribs, and abs in the jelly substance until I reach just below his hip bones. I make sure not to neglect a single cell of skin.

  He says nothing during the process.

  Neither do I.

  “There,” I utter just above the quiet as I cover the last few inches below his navel. “All set.” Reattaching the cap to the small tub of lubricant, I ask, “Do you want to take a minute to move around before we start? I’ll need you to be still for about half an hour.”

  Foster shakes his arms, shifts the weight between his feet, and then cocks his head from side to side a few times. “I think I’m good.”

  “Right.”

  One-word sentences? What is wrong with me?

  I move the tray of water along with the prepared strips of plaster cloth to the c
enter of the room. I circle my fingers around his hand and place it directly over his heart, and then I arrange his other arm at his side, but I leave some space between it and his torso.

  “I’ll only be doing your shoulder on this one,” I comment, referring to his vertically resting arm. “Are you comfortable?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he reassures me.

  “Okay, I’ll be as fast as possible.”

  “Like a quickie?”

  I faintly titter. “Not quite. I doubt you’ll enjoy this as much as you would a quickie.”

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  I soak the first cloth in the tub of water, lightly squeeze off the excess liquid, and then gently apply the tiny sheet across the length of his shoulder, smoothing out all the wrinkles so that it takes on the shape of his body.

  “Have you done many of these?” he asks quietly, his exhale fluttering along my cheekbone.

  “No,” I reply, my voice soft and airy. “You’re my second. I did one on Chandra years ago, but that’s it.”

  “So, you’re a novice?”

  “A little.” I reach down, repeating the wetting process of a new cloth. “Why? Are you nervous about my skills?”

  “Not really. I’m sure I’m in good hands.”

  “Thanks for the confidence.” My fingertips gently draw the wet white plaster sheet along the form of his bicep. “I just hope it turns out the way I’ve envisioned it in my head.”

  “I’m sure it will be great.”

  “We shall see.”

  Over the next twenty minutes, I apply the tiny slivers of plaster cloth, one by one, to Foster’s naked body, covering every inch of the front portion of his upper torso. He’s an exorbitantly tolerant model, never complaining about the coolness or pressure of my touch or the fact that he’s unable to move, even minutely. During the entire process of transforming his skin from tender flesh to a thickening white mold, he keeps his lung movement in control so not to expand the hardening sculpture as it sets.

  “This is the last one,” I tell him while on my knees, applying the final cloth to his lower abdomen. “You just need to hold still for about another ten to fifteen minutes, and then we can remove the finished product.”