Competition is healthy.
That's what I tell myself every time I have the unfortunate impulse of comparing my career path to Cristina's. Even then I realise on some level that it's a rationalisation. I'm too used to being the top of my class with ease, as I have been through high school. The effortless way in which she's surpassed me at every exam smarts a little.
Sometimes I wonder.
Is she... just plain smarter than me?
I don't know. I mean, even if that were the case, so what? Surely I don't think of myself as the smartest person alive, and that implies that there must be people smarter than me all around, and eventually I might even meet some.
But there's something about Cristina that makes me twitch in discomfort and insecurities. It never happens with anyone else. I just get this weird belittling feeling every time she obtains a new accolade. I can't stop comparing myself obsessively to her achievements... and coming up short.
I don't like this new side of me, to be honest. It feels petty, and a bit spiteful, and not at all like myself, particularly because Cristina and I are good friends.
We didn't known each other when signing the lease, and I was afraid I would up with a roommate I disliked. I needed this arrangement to work.
A two-bedroom uni accommodation has the clear benefit of avoiding the absolute chaos of multi-student apartments, while still allowing two people to split rent together.
I imagine Cristina must have been as nervous as I was, but thankfully we hit it off right away. Since then, we've been enjoying movie nights, introducing one another to our mutual friends, and on the right days, when everything falls into place and we have enough energy left, we even cook something together.
Maybe most importantly, we have an even split of the chores, with no drama about our turn-taking. I couldn't have asked for a better roommate -- except maybe one that didn't trigger my academic insecurities by constantly one-upping me. But I'm mature enough to realise that it's my problem, not hers, so I leave her alone about it.
Hell, she's such a good friend that, as my stress levels built up over the last few months, she's offered to help me relieve them. She massages my shoulder sometimes, and repeat lulling statements to me in a low, soothing voice.
Somehow, I always fall asleep when she does that, and I never remember her exact words afterwards, but it does wonders for my peace of mind. She really is an incredible friend.
And besides, competition is healthy. Surely, her achievements will spur me on and try to be an even better academic. It's not like we're actually playing a zero-sum game that would determine a winner and a loser, right?
Of course, there's one other thing I really like about having Cristina as a roommate: her feet. I've always been a foot fetishist, but I've only begun to notice Cristina's feet recently, particularly after one of our relaxation sessions.
Damn, they look good. They're small and elegant, with well-proportioned toes, and an ankle that looks shaped by a fancy designer.
Feet worthy of worship, I think to myself absurdly, as I wash the dishes.
Like any foot fetishist, I've long since learned to sneak a peek every now and again without looking conspicuous, and rooming together provides plenty of opportunities to enjoy the sight of her feet.
Sometimes I think to myself that maybe I might get to rub them some day, but these thoughts usually end after a good masturbation session: they're dangerous ideas. There's no way to offer a foot rub without immediately giving the game away, and I don't want to creep her out. She's my friend, after all.
With a final sigh, I put the last washed dish to dry, and ponder the upcoming conversation I'll need to have with Cristina when she comes home. Nothing so pleasant as a discussion on foot fetish, I'm afraid.
She's successfully navigated her way through uni and a PhD -- the terrible bottleneck of all academic careers. But I haven't been so lucky: like most PhD students, I'm now staring at a big pile of nothing.
It's been fun, while it lasted. But it's time to see things for what they are.
As if on cue, I hear the key turn into the front door, and then the unmistakable clank of Cristina's boots, as she marches into the apartment. She was still an insecure wisp of a girl when I first met her. Feels like she's been growing in confidence all this time -- while I've been shrinking.
"Ohh, Marcos!" She calls out, and her head pokes into the kitchen.
She's really pretty -- pale skin and dark locks, a combination that seems unfortunately designed to appeal to all my weaknesses. She gives a cute giggle.
"I knew I'd find you in the kitchen!"
"I'm not exactly hard to find," I tell her gently. "Listen Cri, we need to talk."
That drives all mirth out of the conversation in an instant, unfortunately. She can be serious when the situation demands. As we sit at the kitchen table, though, it's all I can do not to let my eyes wander to her crossed legs.
They're partially obscured by the table, but I can see the tip of her equestrian, flat-bottomed boot protruding out from under the table -- and the place just under the knee where the boot meets her dark, form-fitting jeans. And beyond that, the way the jeans compliment the curve of her thigh.
It is a fetishist's dream.
As Cristina's relaxation sessions slowly get me more and more into a quiet headspace, I begin to see her in a different light. I don't have a crush on her, exactly: she's cute, sure, but I see her as a friend first and foremost, and I don't spend much time thinking about relationships. Anxiety over my future simply takes up way too big a portion of my mental health.
I shake myself out of a reverie. I'm not here to discuss boots and feet and relationships with her.
"I didn't get the research assistant position," I say at last. I thought saying it out loud would make me feel better, like letting down a weight I've been carrying. Instead, it makes me feel worse.
Every time Cristina has something to share with me, it's incredible news. She's successful at everything she does. I wish I could share something like that too, every now and again.
"Oh, I'm so sorry Marcos," Cristina says, brushing my hand with hers. I know she means it, and for all the insecurities she triggers inside me, I really feel no ill will towards her. She's the better academic, in all honesty, as well as the better schmoozer.
I have no patience for socialising and politicking, and that's a real drawback in academia these days. I also don't have her incredibly polished resume, and her string of academic accolades. She was born for this, in a way I am definitely not.
I mean, it's no coincidence that she's the one giving me relaxation sessions.
"Unfortunately," I say, getting to the even worse piece of news, "that means I'm going to have to move out..."
"Oh Marcos, no!" She looks genuinely taken aback, which puzzles me. Didn't she see this coming?
"I know," I say, in a calming tone. "I just can't afford the rent here, and to be honest, there's no point staying if I'm not working in academia anyway. I'll go back home to my parents and figure out what to do next. You can come visit whenever you wa-"
"What if we didn't do that?" Cristina says, as if she's had a sudden epiphany. "I'll pay the rent! I make more than enough. It'll give you time to get back on your feet, and then you can figure out what you want to do next!"
I blink once, twice, just to make sure that I've actually understood.
