"Due to a ruptured pipe, the quantitative biochemistry lab will not meet this Thursday (February 1st). We will update you with the makeup date next week."
I read that sign almost 30 years ago in the world of no cell phones, no social media, and very limited email. In many ways I miss those days, but it did create such inconveniences as standing in front of a door reading a sign to find out that one could have gone home two hours ago instead of sitting around the library studying. The lab was scheduled to start at six pm and run until nine so now I had a free three hours.
"Mia, why is the door closed?" I turn and see Jason walking up. His legs were walking up, but his eyes were walking up and down. I frown slightly, although he at least had the courtesy to stop when caught red handed.
"Really Jason? It's just a pair of baggy sweatpants and an oversized flannel shirt." Even as the words spill out of my mouth, I hear Claire's voice in my head explaining exactly why I don't have a boyfriend. Now, Claire might be my best friend and she has been my roomie for all four years of college, but she still doesn't get it. I had boyfriends in high school, and it was fun, a lot of fun, but it was also a lot of time. Claire is an art major and she has all the time in the world for parties and guys, and more parties, and more guys. Well, that is not completely fair. She has had a steady boyfriend, who has my approval, for almost a year.
However, I did not really want to be completely fair, because, well, yes, I was a bit bitter, which might explain my answer to Jason. As a dual major in chemistry and physics, I did not have time. Even a single science major is more than twice as much work as the liberal arts, and a dual major is almost impossible, but when it comes to academics, the impossible can be mundane, at least for me. However, mundane does not mean easy. Yes, I am very smart, but I also have an amazing work ethic, which is what allows me to survive and succeed. I know this narrative seems to be falling into the whole Asian academic cliche with me being Chinese, but I think of it as the immigrant story. I am born and bred in NYC, have never left, and have always been in the top classes and honors societies. Yes, there are a lot of Asians in those classes, but somehow all the other immigrants I have studied with, the Russians, Germans, people from all parts of Latin America and Africa are not talked about as much. We all had parents who expected perfection; we were the few who could truly deliver. A fair number of us broke; I did not. I was going to be a success and I was going to make damn sure my parents in their old age enjoyed the fruits of their labors..
Well, no Quantitative biochemistry lab and Jason was stupidly staring at me. . To his credit he at least blushed. He was not a bad sort, but not someone I would spend time on even if I had time to spend. "Uh, sorry, I uh..."
This is a typical conversation with Jason; I was bored already. I interrupted, "Well, I have work to do. Have a good night." He might have answered; I did not really notice. Leaving the Manhattan campus, I walked back to the apartment. It was a typical early February day, dark already, and cold. It may not be fashionable, but my clothing was warm, and snug. I love winter in NYC, the bite of cold air, and the click of my boots as I walk. The city I was walking through in 1990 was very different than it is today. It was a lot dirtier and a lot more dangerous, but it also was much cheaper.
Claire and I had a studio apartment, and it was a true studio, as in Claire's art studio. We could afford it. I had a generous scholarship and work study job; Claire's parents were pretty well off and she worked as a bartender. Back then that was enough. The apartment was cheap, and the seven flights I had to walk up to go home was a good reminder of that. However, once I was in the door it did not feel cheap. Between Claire's art skills and my interior design talent inherited from my mom, we had a lot of tasteful art on the walls and surprisingly well coordinated thrift store furniture, although not a lot of furniture..
As you walked in, a couch sat on the right along the door's wall. Then we had an open area, all purpose space maybe fifteen feet on a side. We had a deep comfy deep orange carpet remnant that we would lay out in the space for watching TV or lounging and a bunch of old pillows. That could all be pushed aside so Claire could lay tarps down to paint. In the back was a kitchenette and bathroom. We also had a loft (at least the seven floors got us higher ceilings) above the kitchenette and bathroom. The loft was our bedroom with two full beds and a little desk where I would work at home.
Lofts often sound cute, but climbing ladders can be tiresome. I grabbed 2 oranges and a grapefruit and climbed up into the loft. Grabbing my portable CD player, and a Judas Priest CD, I dug out my work for the night and got myself organized. Headphones on, volume up, fruit peeled and sectioned (yes, I peel and section grapefruit just like an orange Try it, you might like it), and I got to work.
I was about an hour and a half in, when my batteries died. Usually I like to listen to one album on repeat when I work. It has to be an album I know well and really like, so the music becomes almost a background mantra that puts me into my work zone where I could stay for hours. The batteries' dying brought me crashing out of the zone. I continued to work for a moment, and then I heard the rustle of movement from down below. Removing my headphones, I listened more carefully.
More rustling and then a sultry, "O yes, Jackson." It was Claire. She knew I had lab and just assumed I was not home. She sounded really into whatever was happening. I started to call out, but then I paused. I could say that I was curious, but it was more than that. In high school I had a bit of a sex life and I did miss it, really missed it. Back then there was no online porn, and no store I ever heard of that I would walk into with porn that would appeal to me. Yes, I fantasized, but there is fantasy, and then there is reality. When I heard Claire's words, I thought of Jackson's body, tall, taut, and lean. He ran track and his body was chiseled, lean muscle. His blue eyes are the kind you fall into and they are accented by strong cheekbones. Add to it that shoulder length tousled dirty blonde hair, and you have the perfect pale elven warrior from your favorite fantasy series.
Okay, I know some of you will judge me, but I haven't had sex for almost four years and you have never seen a picture of Jackson. Despite my morale code telling me otherwise, I lay down on the floor, and crept toward the edge. They were on the carpet/rug and were only fifteen feet or so from my vantage point. The track lights shined down on the deep orange plush carpet and I almost had a balcony view of a stage. Jackson was tall, probably six foot two or so. Claire, of average height, was nestled into his lap. Claire looked beautiful. I mean she always is beautiful in that Ohio farmer girl kind of way. Her broad round welcoming face with green eyes flecked with gold were pretty enough, but she had that rare broad smile that shows many teeth without looking false or terrifying. Her hair was similar in length and style to Jackson's, but the color was sunrise blonde.
However, at that moment she was pretty in a different way than her regular self. The Claire I was watching I had never really seen before Jackson showed up. Claire was always strong, decisive, and ready to respond. She was the kind of person you wanted next to you on a late night walk home, but she rarely seemed relaxed, at least until Jackson showed up. In Jackson's arms she melted, not in the besotted sense, but her muscles seemed to fully relax and her face almost seemed childlike, simply trusting and living in the present. She was dressed in a loose gray t-shirt and a pair of loose fitting, painted stained jeans.
His arms engulfed her torso, one hand casually stroking her right breast and the other stroking her stomach. She held her hair gathered over her left shoulder giving his lips full access to her neck which he kissed passionately. "So nice, Jackson," she whispered.
"At least the day is over, Claire, so just relax." He brought his hands up to massage her shoulders. She moaned and brought her smallish breasts forward as she rolled her shoulders underneath his working hands. She closed her eyes, letting her head roll, and relax. "Do you want a massage," he asked?
