More Than Water

by Renee Ericson

  She crosses her arms. “I don’t know. Ever since your breakup with Cal, I wasn’t sure.”

  “Sure about what?”

  “I just didn’t…” She sighs, dropping her arms. “I didn’t want you to think I was flaunting Jeremy in your face.”

  “What?” I ask, finding her statement absurd. “That makes no sense at all.”

  “EJ, you and Cal were together for a really long time, and you were a serious couple. You two were always with each other. I’ve known you for what seems like forever, and you haven’t said one word about him since we saw him at the club all—”

  “All over the blueberry bitch?”

  “Yes. You never said much about the breakup, and…you haven’t gone out with anyone since. I was trying to be respectful.”

  I laugh. “Do you think I’m the overly sensitive type?”

  “No…but I’ve been kind of waiting for the impact of the breakup to hit you, and it hasn’t. You don’t seem to be processing anything. A breakdown is inevitable at some point.”

  I scrunch my brow. “Did you change your major to psychology this year and not tell me?”

  “EJ…I’m trying to be your friend.”

  “Listen, I’m okay.” I rub my hands across my face. “I’ve had some time to think about Cal and me, and I’m good. No need to worry.”

  “Are you sure? You can talk to me if you need to.”

  “Positive. He’s a stupid dickwad, and I was an idiot.” I shrug. “Sure, he has good hair, and that ass in leather pants won’t quit, but I’m fine.”

  “Yes, there was something intriguing about those leather pants. A little too tight and…revealing?”

  “Right?” I laugh. “Is this where I make a small penis comment?”

  “Feel free,” she encourages. “It would probably feel good to get it out.”

  “Nah. There’s nothing to talk about in that department, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do indeed.” She nods exaggeratedly. “I get your drift one hundred percent.”

  We both laugh. Chandra giggles so hard that she gives herself the hiccups. After a few more chortles, we finally calm our giddiness, and I gather my things from the counter.

  “I’d better get going,” I say, heading toward the hallway. “My first class starts soon, and I’ve yet to shower.”

  “Okay. You’re good though, about Cal?”

  “Yes.”

  “And me and Jeremy?”

  “Yes, but don’t ask me to join in on some threesome. I don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet.”

  “Of course you aren’t. That would be totally insensitive of me.”

  “It really would be.” I lean a shoulder against the hallway partition. “I do have a line, and you don’t want to cross it.”

  “Would it be crossing the line if I told you that Jeremy has a really cute roommate who’s also an architecture major?”

  “Depends. Have you seen him in leather pants?”

  “Not yet. I could scope that out for you if you’d like.”

  “Maybe.” I peer down at the envelope in my hand. “But I might not be ready to date anyone. This is going to sound weird, but it’s actually been kind of nice, being single and concentrating on school.”

  “Ah, so that’s how you’ve been dealing with the breakup?”

  “Possibly. But senior year is busy anyhow with final projects and now working on these stupid graduate school applications. Breaking up with Cal might have actually been a blessing in disguise. If I don’t figure out a plan for next year soon, I might be heading off to get my MBA.”

  “Your parents are still pushing for that?”

  “Yes, it’s family tradition,” I say, resolved. “I would have to make a strong case for something else, and right now, it’s not looking good.”

  “Well, there’s still time, right?”

  “A little.”

  She shoves her hands into her pockets. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Thanks. Have fun tonight,” I add, referring to her date later this evening. “Should I expect another sleepover? I can make popcorn and rent a movie.”

  “Actually, Jeremy and I are planning on spending the night at his place,” she says suggestively.

  “Ooh la la,” I sing, raising my brows with each syllable. “Somebody’s getting some. Just be sure to practice safe sex.”

  “Thanks, mother,” she jokes back.

  “You’re very welcome, dear.”

  Dropping my bag on the floor near my feet, I take a seat at my usual desk in the classroom where we meet for photography class. This is an art elective that I’m using toward my art history degree. I’ve been fortunate to have many of my desired classes overlap with the required ones for my major.

  “Hey, sexy thing,” Wolfgang, my fine art major friend says, sitting at the desk next to me. He then offers a foam cup to my empty hand. “I brought you a coffee—skim milk, no sweetener.”

  “I love you, Wolfie,” I enunciate with far too much emotion. “You’re way too good to me. Remind me to send you my firstborn in payment.”

  “No need, short stuff. This one’s on me.”

  “You’re the best.”

  “That’s what all the girls who have had the indulgence of my lips say.”

  “Yes, all of them do say that.” I wink at him. “Do I need to remind you that there’s only ever been one?”

  “And she was the best one ever.”

  Since freshman year, Wolfgang and I have been good friends even though we have different majors. We used to see each other more often in the classroom environment, but as the years have passed and our majors are now more focused, we see less of one another. However, we do try to schedule a pertinent elective together each quarter, and this term, it’s photography. When it comes to art, I highly value his opinion, and sometimes, I refer to him as my studio husband. He’s good eye-candy, too—even if he does play for the other team.

  Early in our friendship, he claimed to be bi-curious, and confided in me about the social pressures he felt. So, we made out a few times as an experiment. I was his only subject. He might like to look at girls, and he enjoys their company, but the man salivates for other men.

  Since our make-out sessions, he’s been dating men exclusively, and I’m positive it has nothing to do with our lip-mambo moments. I’m not that bad of a kisser, no matter how much he might tease me.

  “How’s your photography series coming?” Wolfgang questions, pulling out his binder of prints. “Are you getting the shots you need?”

  “I’m not so sure anymore,” I respond tentatively, unhappy with where my subject sits. “It feels like it’s missing something. Will you take a look at it for me?”

  “Anything for you, darling.”

  “Thanks.”

  Our professor, Dr. Jensen, tromps into the room with his haphazard light-brown hair sweeping across his brows like some grungy band member. He’s not even carrying a briefcase, like most typical educators at the college level. He just has some brown paper bag with a grease stain.

  Stopping at the front of the room, he writes Friday’s date in red ink on the whiteboard, circling it about a gazillion times.

  “Due dates, people,” Dr. Jensen announces. He replaces the cap on the dry-erase marker and then turns to address the class further. “We will be critiquing and judging each one of your series this Friday. All prints should be cut to five by eight and matted on an eight-by-ten white board. You are required to turn in a minimum of six prints and no more than ten. Don’t forget. This will count for thirty percent of your final grade in this class.” He tosses the marker onto the empty desk where it quickly rolls across the hard surface before landing on the linoleum floor. “I’ll be coming around to see if you have any questions. Once I’ve checked in with you or if you don’t have anything you’d like to discuss, you are free to go and use the rest of the class to work on your projects.”

  More than half of the class rises from th
eir seats, collects their belongings, and exits out the door. When a professor lets a class loose early, it’s often a good excuse to head home and go back to bed. We’re responsible for our deadlines, of course, but the liberty to work when we want is something I love about this program. It allows free-flowing thoughts, creativity, and inspiration to come naturally, not forced.

  “Are you staying?” Wolfgang questions me, gathering his things.

  “Yeah, I want to get an opinion.” I sip my coffee. Still piping hot, it slightly burns my tongue. “I’m not feeling one hundred percent about my work.”

  “There’s a good reason for that.” He leans closer, and at a lower volume, he says, “It’s because you’re an artist. Doubt is part of the process.”

  “Then, I’m a super artist right now.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Yeah. It’s not sitting right with me.” I flip through the images I’ve taken over the last week. “The direction is there—I feel it—but everything I’ve attempted misses the mark.”

  “It happens to all of us,” he consoles. “I’ll wait with you.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Nah, it’s all good. He can look at my stuff, too, and then we can talk shop and make sure you’re on track. You can look at my horrid work, too.”

  “I love everything you do. It’s like you can’t create anything wrong.”

  “Or you can stroke the hell out of my ego.”

  About ten minutes later, Dr. Jensen steps over to where Wolfgang and I are sitting together, conversing about the latest teen book turned to overly hormonal movie. We both want to see it.

  Dr. Jensen briefly looks at the prints Wolfgang accumulated for his photo series based around coffee. There’s a lot to go through since my friend has gone down two different paths with his images. He has made a study of production with photographs of beans, equipment, and the final liquid product, and another study of the social aspects, which include baristas and people consuming the caffeinated beverage. The overall critique in regard to the composition of each image is worthy, as expected because Wolfgang has a keen natural instinct for the arts, but he needs to tighten up his focus a little for a targeted impact.

  Dr. Jensen then turns to me. “EJ, let’s see what you have.”

  I sift through my collection of black-and-white images, sorting out my favorites and what I consider my better work.

  “What is the exact focus of your study?” he asks, browsing my selection of favorite images.

  “Water,” I state firmly. “But it feels like something is missing.”

  “These are all different. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  He separates three images from the others, closely looking at each one. I study the pictures—a puddle, a running faucet, and a fountain image taken at a downtown water sculpture on the square.

  “Yes, but they’re all linked by water, which is my subject.”

  “But they all convey more than that, and they have a different”—Dr. Jensen circles his hands in front of his torso as if he’s turning the wheels of his vocabulary—“message.”

  “Yeah.” I bite my bottom lip. “I guess in some ways. Maybe I need another environment to connect them better?”

  “No, you have plenty to work with here.” He fingers through the prints set aside, pulling out two images from the downtown fountain shoot. “You have more in this environment. I don’t think you need another way of showing water, but rather, you need to explore it further in one place. Dig deeper.”

  “Deeper,” I mutter.

  He hands me an image of water suspended in air, a droplet caught midstream, sparkling in the sunlight. The fluid almost glows independently in contrast to the background. There’s something ethereal about it, and I didn’t originally pull it as a favorite.

  “This one,” he continues, “is very interesting, more so than all the others. The way the liquid is caught in the light is like—”

  “A religious experience?”

  “Some might see it that way. It’s all up to interpretation, but that’s the art in it.”

  Holding the black-and-white image he chose, I begin to get lost in the story of the water and the symbolism in my own mind. This simple droplet of water could very well convey the fragile beauty of life. It’s a living spirit that causes my heart to flutter with delight, connecting myself to the moment. It’s not just water. It’s everything, if I allow it to be.

  “I see what you mean,” I say, awestruck that it was there all along.

  “Do you think you have a good direction now?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Very good. Email me if you have any questions.”

  Dr. Jensen steps away, heading toward another student waiting for his insightful advice. I gather up my prints, stuff them back into my bag, and exit the classroom with Wolfgang by my side.

  “So, what do you think you’re going to do about your project?” he asks, playing with the ends of my hair.

  I zero in on his hand near my shoulder as his fingers continue to run through the white-blonde locks. “What are you doing?”

  “You really do have the best hair,” he says with a charming flirtatious innocence. “I can’t help myself.”

  I give him the what-in-the-hell-are-you-talking-about eye.

  He removes his hand. “You know about my hair fetish.”

  “I do?” I enunciate. “Is that why you keep your head shaved?”

  He rubs the dark stubble on top of his skull. “Not on me. I like it on others. You’re your own masterpiece. Every person is.”

  “Now, you’re just trying to cover how stupid you sound with compliments.”

  “It’s the same thing with boobs. I could look at those all day, too. They’re really pretty. I love the way some bounce, and others just sit up, high and tight.”

  “I’ll be sure to wear turtlenecks from now on.”

  “No, don’t! Yours are great. It’s just an infatuation. I only like to sample, not commit.”

  “You’re ridiculous.” I laugh. “Spoken like a true artist—always struggling and can’t commit to anything.”

  “That’s not true,” he objects, a sly grin spreading across his face. “I’m thinking about committing sin with Jasper this evening.”

  I’m intrigued. “The hottie with a body from the graphic design department?”

  “The one and only. What a sexy ass he has, too. We’re supposed to have drinks tonight.”

  “Just drinks?” I ask suggestively.

  “We shall see. Maybe I’ll let him drink me.”

  “Okay, too much information. I don’t want to hear how you use each other as lick sticks.”

  “You know you fantasize about it.”

  “Not so much.” I scrunch my nose. “I’m not into the curiosity sandwich. I’m a mature young lady.”

  He barks a laugh, wrapping an arm around my neck. “I love you, little lady. You’re so full of shit.”

  We continue down the hallway toward the cafe area. Wolfgang orders a pumpkin muffin from the counter, and we take a seat at one of the small round metal tables.

  “Let’s talk shop. How do you plan to handle your water series?” he asks, wiping the napkin across his mouth.

  “I almost feel like starting over, to tell you the truth,” I admit, feeling overwhelmed. “Dr. Jensen was right. My stuff is all over the place.”

  “You’re not looking at it right. You have some brilliant pieces in there.” He taps my binder. “The fountain stuff in particular has some profound messages and composition.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yeah. Maybe you just need more of those?”

  “If I were to go that route, it’d be best to get some images in different lighting. Everything I have is during the day.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. You totally should.”

  “It’s not going to happen.” I sigh. “The assignment is due on Friday, and I need to print and matte everything tomorrow in order to ma
ke the deadline. There’s not enough time.”

  “What’s the issue? Take the shots tonight.”

  “Can’t. I have to work and by the time I get off, it’ll be nearly midnight.”

  “So?”

  “So, the fountain is downtown. You know, the one on the square? That’s the problem.” I raise my brows.

  “Still not following.”

  “Late night, girl with her head shoved behind a camera and not aware of her environment,” I say, like the issue is obvious. “There’s been a lot of crime in that area lately. I’d be asking for some serious trouble without a safety buddy, and Chandra has a date tonight. It’s a big reason all my shots are daytime ones. Plus, everyone is always so busy with studios and assignments. It’s a little late to ask someone else.”

  “I’ll go with you,” he offers.

  “You just said you have a date with Jasper. I can’t let you give that up.”

  “I love you, little one, but I’m not offering to give up anything.” Wolfgang leans his elbows on the table. “I’ll have a drink with him, and then he and I both can chaperone your silly ass. So, you’ll have two guys watching your back.”

  I glance at my photo binder, wanting so badly to fill it with greatness. “Do you think he would mind?”

  “Nah,” he says confidently. “Besides, you need help, and you would do it for me.”

  “I’ll owe you big time.”

  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 word smelting sounds 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.