More Than Water (14 page)

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 amazing, 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.”

He shakes his head. “You’re just trying to get a rise out of me.”

“No, I’m being honest. The other night was impressive, and sometimes, riding the roller coaster more than once isn’t a bad thing. I could ride yours again.”

He barks, laughter exploding from his lips. “Are you serious?”

I lift my brows. “Yeah, I think I am.”

Foster licks his bottom lip, and I stare at his thick lashes hooding his eyes as he contemplates his feet. A silent question hangs in the air, filtering the atmosphere like moonlight when the sun sets, creeping into the forefront.

“If I’m being honest,” he states, stepping closer until his chest teasingly touches my own, “I wouldn’t mind riding you again either.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Definitely.”

My tongue flirts with the opening of my mouth. “Do you want to…”

“Still be friends?”

“Yes.”

“But something else, too?” he suggests.

“I’m open to it.”

His breathing becomes heavier and visible with the rise and fall of his chest. “Friends who kiss?”

“Or more—”

Foster’s mouth crashes upon mine, hard and fanatical, as an agreement in theory is made into reality. Our tongues collide, desperate to feel and taste what the other has to offer, exploring a familiar and exciting memory.

His hands pull and squeeze my hips while mine thread through his soft and somewhat damp hair, releasing the scent of his shampoo. My shirt rises at the sides as Foster’s thumbs explore upward under the garment.

“Still friends?” he questions, dipping his head and grazing his lips along the delicate skin of my neck.

“The best kind.” My fingertips search for his naked flesh at the hem of his sweatshirt.

“No expectations?”

“None from me,” I pant. “Except for the occasional high five or fist bump.”

Foster lifts the shirt over my head, tosses it to the floor, and then raises me onto the granite countertop. I reach for the bottom of his sweatshirt, pull it off his body, and let gravity take it, falling next to mine.

“I don’t know if I told you before,” I say, palming his firm chest, “but you’re really fucking hot without your clothes on.”

“No”—he undoes my bra—“you didn’t mention it.”

“Well, now, you know.”

He slides my lingerie down my arms. “Your breasts are like something out of a magazine. They’re anatomy perfection.” He cups one with his hand. “And just the right weight.”

“I take them to the booby gym weekly.”

“I bet.” Lowering his head, he tauntingly licks my nipple. “Do you work these out, too?”

“They’re kind of part of the package.”

Foster continues to tongue and massage my breasts as I explore his tight arms and shoulders with my hands. Trailing his fingers down my front, he slides a hand underneath my pants and into my panties, searching for my opening. I spread my legs, allowing him to deftly touch me in a sensual and surprisingly skillful manner.

Lifting his head in line with my own, he presses our lips together, and I moan into his mouth as he continues to evocatively touch me.

“You get so wet,” he murmurs. “So, so wet. I want to kiss you.”

“You already are.” I smile, humored.

“Down here.” He pushes a finger inside me and then slides it outward before slowly entering my cavity once again. “With my mouth.”

“Are you always this…step-by-step?”

“No, but I need to make sure that it’s okay.”

“It’s definitely okay.” I lick his ear. “Does this mean that you will expect me to give you head in return?”

“Only if you want to.”

Then, the words, “I think I want you to fuck me,” cross my lips without a thought.

“You have an interesting way of expressing yourself.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Nudging him backward to create some space between us, I hop off the counter, landing next to him. He stands motionless in front of me as I unbutton and then unzip his pants. With both hands, I grab the waistband of his jeans and boxers and shimmy them down his legs. He steps out of them, standing completely naked before me.

“Still impressive,” I comment, referring to his erection.

“Thanks. Glad it works for you.”

“Me, too.”

I slip my hands into the sides of my pants and drop them along with my panties to the ground. Placing my hands at my waist, I tilt my head with an expectant look upon my face.

“Still nice.” He purses his lips. “I’m surprised you don’t have any tattoos. I thought that was part of the artist uniform.”

“Who says I should be that much of a cliché? I’m naturally a masterpiece.”