“You know me, took a nap and dreamed in LaTeX,” I admitted.
She grimaced sympathy.“So, roommate?”
I exhaled, taking the cold cup.“Exists.Tall, hockey, polite.Also takes up space that should be mine.”
“Luke Carter.”She dug in her pocket for lip balm.“Saw the team’s Insta earlier.They were filming goalie drills at dawn.He’s kinda hunky.If you like someone who is…” She dug out her phone and opened the school’s Instagram account and started reading, “’Six-foot-two, 220 pounds of solid muscle from what I can tell.Short brown hair and brown eyes,” she said as she zoomed in on his face.
“Is that his athletic profile or are you looking at his dating app?”
“Oh, is he on Grindr?”she asked
“I wouldn’t know,” I said rolling my eyes.“And I doubt he’s gay.And even if he was, I doubt he’d go for someone like me.We’re very different.Anyway, changing topics, housing promised Luke four weeks, then they can move people around and—fingers crossed—get us our singles back.”
“You file for a move?”
“No.I let the jock do it.”I nudged a pebble off the step with my sneaker.“Transfer paperwork comes up, scholarship office notices, and I’m the cost-intensive kid complaining about freebies.”
“Scholarship is housing-inclusive.You’re entitled.”
“Entitled is a loaded word when you don’t pay full freight.”
She squinted at me.“Translation: you’d rather recalibrate than risk notice.”
I lifted a shoulder.Confirmation enough.
We walked toward Blue Mug, shoes scuffing on the pavement.Maya matched my pace, deliberate and steady.
“You like him?”she asked.
“I’ve collected approximately twenty minutes of data.He labels fridge shelves.”
“That’s bordering on soulmate territory for you.”
I elbowed her, gentle.“Funny.”
We ducked inside the café’s air-conditioned blur of espresso and indie guitar.Lines moved fast; campus noon rush.I grabbed a turkey wrap, Maya a lentil soup.No seats open, so we claimed a standing counter by the window.
She blew on her spoon.“So, what’s the actual problem with him as a roomie?Space?Noise?Or that he’s an unknown variable?”
“Unknown variable,” I echoed.“My room was fixed; now it’s fuzzy logic.”
“From what I remember of calculus, variables can become constants,” she said, eyes grinning over the rim of her cup.
I broke the wrap in half, less hungry than restless.“Constants take time.Also, he smells like hockey pads.”
“He showers eventually.Or should I explain to him the necessity of soap and water?”
“Sure thing, Dr.Chen.”A laugh escaped before I could stop it.Relief tasted like oregano and too much student-loan caution.I swallowed.“I’ll adapt.”
“From your mouth to Sun Wukong’s ears.”
“Really, the monkey king?From what I remember, he’s a trickster god.”
“More mischievous than trickster.I think he’s just misunderstood.Like someone else I know,” she opened her eyes widely, creased her brow, and tilted her head in my direction.
“I’m not misunderstood.I’m perfectly understood by those who possess more logic than a testosterone-fueled meathead.”
“Have you actually talked to him?Beyond ‘your shelf, my shelf, goodnight’?”
