Chapter Text
There was a man in your usual study spot. He was slouched over your library carrel in a sweatshirt and baggy jeans. For a moment you thought about hightailing out of there and letting him claim the desk for the rest of the semester. You could study at your department center or find a cafe to hunker down in. Then you decided that you needed to grow some balls at some point. You were particular about your study spaces and had a hard time working in your apartment. Something about work life separation. Plus, you liked this spot. You’d specifically chosen this carrel because the window gave you a of the view of the city and it had extra shelves built in. There was no time better than the present, right?
“You’re in my carrel.” You finally stated. Your voice echoed through the space, earning you a couple nasty looks from other students. The stranger didn’t budge, apparently too asleep to notice you.
You cleared your throat and tried again. “I said you’re in my carrel.”
He jolted up from his dozing, bumping his right shin against the underside of the desk and kicking his book bag that he had stashed underneath. He glanced at you in confusion. He seemed so frazzled and exhausted that you almost felt bad for distributing his studies. Almost.
“Dude, you’re in my carrel.” You said. You didn’t even bother trying to hide the annoyance in your tone this time.
“Shit-sorry I didn’t know. My bad.” He squinted and placed his reading glasses on. You waited as he fumbled for his phone from his jacket pocket, taking out crinkly protein bar wrappers and crumpled up notes. His home screen lit up with a picture of him and a kind older woman on the Brooklyn Bridge framed by the warm horizon.
“I could have sworn I booked…” His voice trailed off as he scrolled through his emails, parsing through unread messages and spam mail. You spotted a 10% Ebay coupon in the midst and remembered that you really needed to browse Facebook Marketplace for a new lamp. You silently judged how disorganized his inbox was.
“It’s fine.” You tucked your books back into your bag, adjusting the leather strap on your shoulder to alleviate the ache. “I think University policy allows two people to book the same carrel. Could you book a new one?”
He frowned, a bit put off by your direct ask. He pulled up the library’s online system and typed his student login information anyway. You watched him scroll through red box after red box. All the spaces were booked for the rest of the semester.
“Whatever, don’t worry about it.” You muttered. “Do you come here often?”
“Uh, usually after my lab.” You vaguely recalled the ugly modernist building with plexiglass windows and square concrete pillars. It was like the architect intentionally wanted to make the most inhospitable, cold building ever and lock all the STEM students in there. He frowned and cracked his knuckles with a satisfying pop. “which is like on a daily basis this semester. Those molecular protein structures aren’t going to digitize themselves.”
“We should figure out a study schedule then.”
He didn’t seem to catch on. He stared at you. “Why?”
“So we can both use the space to study. Be out of each other’s hair.”
“Oh, I don’t mind sharing. I’m pretty quiet when I’m working.”
You didn’t know how he expected the both of you to squeeze into a two foot space. You pointedly looked at the mess of textbooks and papers sprawled over the desk, The ink from his pen had bled through the thin cardboard notebook and left blue smears over the wooden surface. Your gaze settled on the single creaky chair that he was currently rocking back and forth on.
“Right.” He groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry, I’m usually not like this all over the place. This week has been rough.” He rubbed his temples sheepishly.
“It’s okay, I get it. Feels like the deadlines are always coming. It’s always this or that. I’m always cosplaying as Sisyphus and his boulder.” You whispered. You mimicked pushing an invisible heavy weight with your hands.
“Sisyphus clearly hasn’t heard of a crane. He could have been done with the job within a month.”
“I’ve never heard of that retelling before.”
“It’s an unpublished version.”
“You should dig up Homer and let him know. Make him revise those papyrus fragments.” You smiled. He seemed to brighten up at your reaction.
“I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Parker. Grad student in the Biochemistry department.”
You replied with your name.
“I usually do most of my grading after morning lecture, so I’ll need the space during the afternoon.” You could almost see the digital grade markers and the flurry of emails from undergraduates begging for extra credit.
“Sounds good. I’m more of a night owl anyway. I almost never come here earlier than 8 pm.”
“Wow, that seems healthy. I can’t even imagine your sleep schedule.”
“Oh, it’s nonexistent.” He pointed to the heavy bags underneath his eyes and the empty energy drinks strewn around the desk.
“Yeah, you might want to fix that.”
“Never thought of such an idea before. Thanks for the advice.”
“No problem, anytime.” You rolled your eyes. You were starting to get nasty looks again and took it as a sign to end the conversation.
“I’ll see you around.” He gave you a small smile.
-
The next morning, you found a package addressed to a ‘Peter Parker’ in your mailbox. It was soft yet flexible, perhaps some sort of clothing or fabric, but very clearly not the expensive imported Japanese shampoo you had bought with the last of your tax returns. You’re surprised to notice that the address matches up to a unit two floors below yours.
Curiosity led you to walk down the stairs and locate the intended address. You knocked on the door once. There was no response. You knocked again. There was still silence. You resisted the urge to knock a third time because you feared that would be rude. You were just about to leave the package on the ground when you heard faint shuffling and the sound of a chair moving.
The same Peter as yesterday opened the door, sunlight filtering from his room into the dusty hallway.
He seemed to have just rolled out of bed. He was wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a giant black Pink Floyd t-shirt that hung down to his knees. His brown hair stuck out in different tufts, framed by his sideburns. There was a nasty bruise on the left side of his face, blossoming from his neck. You spotted the corners of a peeling Hitchcock movie poster behind him. There was also a lot of strange wires and various scrap metal scattered across the floor, a disaster in the making.
It turned out all those cliches were true. It was a small world after all.
“It’s you.” He said, clearly surprised. “Girl from the carrel.”
“Did you forget my name already?”
“No. Course not.” He said defensively and averted his gaze. His hesitation spoke louder. You sighed and repeated your name.
“Right, I was just about to say that. It was on the tip of my tongue.” He nodded vigorously. It was almost comedic.
“We live in the same complex.” You cut him off to save any further humiliation. You didn’t want him to think you were stalking him or something. “I live two floors above you. I think our mail got mixed up.” In hindsight you probably shouldn’t have given out your exact address. Student or not, he still was a stranger, but it was too late to take it back. You handed him the package.
“Sorry about that.”
“What happened to your face?” You pointed towards the purplish-red mark on his cheek. It looked painful and swollen.
Peter looked surprised at your concern, touching his face as if just realizing the wound was there. Perhaps it was the fact that you two were still strangers. You liked to think of yourself as a kind person, not too cloying but not cold either.
He scratched his head. “It’s embarrassing, but I slipped on a patch of ice on the stairs. Landed on my face Looney Toons style.” He winced, as if the mere memory made him sore.
“Well, be careful. They tend to forget to salt the entrance. Cheapskates!" You didn’t mention that the ground probably would have scraped his cheek in his story and you highly doubted someone could injure themselves that way and wind up with a bruise in such a pointed, concentrated spot. It wasn’t your business what secrets he was keeping. Maybe he got into a bar fight and lost. Maybe he was an escort. He was handsome enough.
“Damn, can’t remember the last time I heard someone use the word ‘Cheapskates.’ How old are you again?”
“First, I’m verbose, not dated, let’s get that straight.” You scoffed, crossing your arms across your chest. Peter tilted his head.
“Second, I’m old enough to recognize the underlying ageism in that question. Third, do you want to borrow my ice roller for that?” You pointed at his bruise again. He shied away from your gaze, tilting his head away.
“What’s that?”
“It’s like a cold face massager. You know what a Gua Sha is?”
He shook his head. Average white person.
“Whatever that doesn’t matter. I use it when I get Eczema flareups. Good for swelling.”
“Ouch.” He smiled. “It’s okay. It’s not that serious. My frozen vegetable medley bag is carrying me. Might as well get some use out of it before I saute it for dinner.”
“Whatever you say.” You rolled your eyes. Men and their adherence to the heathen ways of living. “Offer still stands if the broccoli just doesn’t cut it.”
“I’ll be sure to keep you updated.”
-
You don’t really think much else about the interaction, the memory fading amidst the blur of office hours sessions and the heaping tabs of secondary source literature piling up on your desk. It didn’t help that the rest of the week got progressively worse. Your friend hosted an apartment warming party with your graduate cohort at which you spilled red wine over your favorite dress. Your cat swallowed a piece of plastic that he had bitten off your phone charger, so you had to rush him to the vet to get his stomach pumped, denting your bank account by a cool thousand. By the time you finished answering the hundred emails in your inbox and enduring the depressing weekly meeting with your advisor, it was the weekend.
The cherry on top of a relatively horrible week was that the single dryer in the complex was broken. It made a weird thudding sound, and there was a light smell of smoke in the basement. The fact that the fire alarm did not go off made you feel more worried than relieved.
“Fuck my life.” You groaned.
You opened the machine, inspecting the large pile of boxers, baggy pants, and tops. Some poor man was also going to have a rough night. You picked up a Pink Floyd t-shirt. There were brown scorch marks on the collar, and the heat had melted the image right off into a toxic greyish smear. You vaguely recalled Peter’s pajamas from your brief interaction earlier this week. Another coincidence. It seemed that there were higher forces urging you to interact with this man.
You dragged the pile of clothing up the complex’s stairs, which wasn’t an easy feat. The bag weighed 40 pounds and kept smacking the ground with each step, forcing you to consistently readjust your grip. You had no idea how Peter managed to do this on a weekly basis. He either must be relatively built, or you were just exceptionally weak. You felt like a haggard Santa Claus by the time you reached Peter’s floor with a sheer line of sweat dripping down your forehead.
“Fuck everything.”
You knocked on the door again, feeling a strange sense of deja vu by once again clutching a bag of Peter’s things. This time, nobody responded, even after you knocked a third time. You left a sticky note on the door explaining the situation and tacked on your number in Sharpie, just in case somebody decided to steal a bag of lightly toasted men’s clothing. Then you walked back down the basement to drag your own clothes to the nearest laundromat. As soon as you returned to your apartment you flopped face first in bed, not even bothering to brush your teeth.
Later, at 4:05 AM you received a long chunk of text from an unknown number profusely thanking you for your efforts. You rolled over in bed onto your side, dragging your comforter up to your chin, and stretched your toes, soaking up the warmth. You blinked through your exhaustion as you stared at the number and made a new contact titled ‘Peter’ and his apartment number. You thought about typing out a response before deciding to simply heart his message and go back to sleep.
A couple days later you bump into him as you’re heading down the stairs. The bruise on his face has healed remarkably well, his skin now blemish-free and clear. He definitely needed to recommend you whatever topical treatment he was using.
“Oh, hi.” You gave a small wave. “Do you remember my name?”
“Yes.” His face reddened. He recited it perfectly, saying it twice for good measure.
“Glad it stuck. You must have written it on your wrist or something.”
“That’s harsh and kinda unfair.”
“I called in a work order for the laundry machine, by the way.” You hummed. “Apparently somebody’s coming tomorrow to fix it.”
You’re about to leave when he stopped you.
“Do you want to grab coffee?” He hesitated. “I feel bad for making you walk down all those steps with my stuff. I know a place that does cold brew right. It’s not far.”
“Like right now?” You checked the time on your phone. 8:10 AM. You’re not sure why you hesitate. It wasn’t like you had any urgent places to be. You were just going to pick up an egg and cheese sandwich from the local bodega.
“Yes. Well, I guess not like right right now. I need to make sure I look presentable and stuff, like I haven’t been running on five hours of sleep for the past couple days.” He ran a hand through his hair. It looked unwashed. You were jealous of how good it looked despite being unkempt.
“It’s fine if you’re busy.” He added. He looked embarrassed for asking, and you felt a bit bad for always being so curt. “I’m just trying to meet more graduate students, interact with more people on a regular basis. Take a break from pushing that boulder, you know?”
You smiled. “Okay, guy from carrel. I’ll meet you downstairs in 15 minutes?”
Peter was funny and kind. He paid for your cold brew and cheese danish, despite your protests, claiming that the Biochemistry department paid their graduate students higher stipends and thus he needed to pay reparations. The both of you squeezed into a small nook in the corner of the cafe, away from the chatter of the regulars and the elderly women gossiping over hot chai lattes. You sipped your coffee slowly, enjoying the sweet, mellow flavor while he took big, heaving gulps.
You learned that he had grown up in Queens with his Aunt and Uncle, who passed away several years ago. He enjoyed skateboarding, but didn’t have as much time as usual with the general responsibilities of life and the never-ending task of writing his dissertation. When you asked what his research was on, he stated a set of scientific terms and connotations that meant nothing to you. He tried to explain it to you in layman’s terms, but even that didn’t elicit any reaction. He had wanted to try again, but you had stopped him.
Peter was also very much a dork, but in all honesty, most graduate students, including yourself, were. He liked old thrillers like Rear Window and Vertigo. He enjoyed science fiction like 1984 and anything written by Ursula K. Leguine. You recommended some of Ted Chiang’s short stories, which he promised he would check out. He was awkward at times, fumbling over his words, but there was a certain genuineness to him that made it sweet.
You hadn’t even realized that two hours had passed before you received a notification from your phone warning you that lecture was in 15 minutes.
“Damn, I have to head to campus.” You felt bad for cutting the conversation short.
“Office hours with the kiddos?” Peter raised an eyebrow.
“No, that’s at noon. I’m a teaching assistant for Professor Garcia’s lecture. Have to set up some slides before class.”
“I’ll go with you.” He sat up, picking up both your empty cups and tossing them in the trash. ”I need to stop by the lab anyway. Do my time.”
“Sheesh, how many years did they give you?”
“3 years plus however long it takes for me to finish my dissertation.”
“Join the club.”
On the subway ride over he added commentary for every stop. There was always a particular Italian restaurant that served a mean chicken parm or a thrift store that had remained obscure enough from the alternative teenagers for the prices not to be inflated. You jotted down some of the places he had mentioned in your notes app. You’ve never met anyone who knew the city as well as he did.
It was raining when you stepped out of the station. Peter didn’t bring an umbrella, so you let him duck under yours. Unfortunately, his height made the process of walking together awkward, forcing him to simultaneously hold the umbrella high above and crouch next to you to ensure the raindrops didn’t fall on you. You were almost clipped in the shoulder by a yellow taxi, but Peter jerked you out of the way in time.
“Watch where you’re going, asshole! We’re walking here!” He yelled at the car, glaring at the driver from the rear view window. You appreciated his over the top reaction and his cliche New Yorker response.
You stopped at an intersection, glancing over at the large marbled building where your lecture was and the ugly minimal tech building in the opposite distance. “My building is this way.” You meant to say it like a statement, but it came out like a question. “What are you staring at?”
“I just can’t imagine how they squeeze all those students in there.” He pointed to the building where your lecture was held in.
“You seriously cannot be talking right now, not with that cheese grater of a laboratory.”
“That building cost 30 million dollars to build.”
“You say that like it’s a flex. I could pay off my student loans, take a year-long trip to Europe, and build a prettier building with 30 million dollars.”
He nodded. “Fair point. I guess I’ll see you on the other side?” He gave a stupid salute that simultaneously made you want to cringe and laugh. “We should keep in touch in case any new packages get lost.”
“Or any laundry machines break,” You said solemnly. He grinned, and for a moment, you thought he was going to say something before he lowered his hand and turned away. You watched as he disappeared into the distance, swallowed by the crowd.
Later that night, you left a copy of Ted Chiang’s Exhalation by his apartment door. You told yourself that you had finished reading it anyway. It was just sitting on your shelf gathering dust. He would get more use out of it. He sent you a text message thanking you. You stared at the green bubble longer than you should have, imagining his long fingers typing out the message.