On an Edge of Glass

Payton—so tightly that I think I might break my nails. 
                  On my left, Mark’s blaring white grin leads me to the conclusion that his teeth are probably going to fall out of his mouth. 
    W hen my best friend finally speaks, his words are swollen with unabashed amusement.  “Too perfect,” he chirrups, grabbing my right hand and squeezing it between his fingers.
                  I squeeze back.

CHAPTER THREE
    Coriander-less Kabobs
     
     
    There a re so many odd moments in life.  Like the time that Mark and I got trapped in an elevator in Richmond for three hours.  We were in there with a Hollywood-based talent agent and ended up getting two signed movie posters and free tickets to an amazing concert out of the ordeal. 
    Or, there was that incident in the fourth grade, when my babysitter’s dog really did eat my homework assignment.
    Strange things happen even in real life and the only thing to do is to get over it.  I spend the weekend reminding myself of this and rationalizing the fact that my mystery coffee house crush is Ben Hamilton, and Ben Hamilton is also my new roommate. 
    I do all of my normal things.  I study Friday night like planned.  On Saturday afternoon, Mark kidnaps me and whisks me away to the mall for a shopping excursion.  Afterward, we get strawberry and chocolate parfaits and sit on a bench outside of Winchesters.  We make up stories about the people that walk past us and laugh like we normally do. 
    I clean and fold my laundry.  I watch bad reality TV at night and study for the LSAT during commercial breaks.  On Sunday morning, I paint my nails. 
    The whole time, I tell myself that Ben being my new roommate is just like every other odd event in my life—soon it will fade into the background noise.  It’s a non-issue. 
    I’ m simply going to avoid him as much as possible. 
    T his is hardly a challenge considering that he moved in the last of his boxes around noon on Saturday, and stayed away from the house for the rest of the weekend.  It doesn’t escape me that he could be with a girl, shacked-up and rolling around in her bed.
    The pinpricks of jealousy that break out on my skin and the way that my stomach turns over, are not good signs.  I have to remind myself more than once that Ben is completely off limits by my own proclamation.
    Late Sunday, while I’m lying in bed with an LSAT study guide propped up on my knee, I hear the click of Ben’s car door and remote locks through my bedroom window.  The front door opens and closes softly.  His uneven steps echo on the wooden floor of the hallway along with another sound.  I listen closely, finally realizing that he must be carrying an instrument in the house with him.  Just outside my door, he stumbles and I hear his hand go to the wall for balance.  I catch my breath.
    Later, I fall asleep trying to listen carefully for Ben’s rhythmic breathing through the thin wall that separates our bedrooms.
                  I have an early class Monday, and beforehand I’m going to shoot some photos of a new sculpture installation some art students put up on campus last week.  It’s all sleek metal lines and strange, sharp corners.  If I get there in the right morning light, I know that I can take some amazing shots. 
    When I was twelve, my grandmother gave me a ridiculously expensive camera for Christmas because my parents thought it would be good for my academic resume to be on the middle school newspaper staff.  All of the writing spots were already filled, but there was an opening for a photographer.  My newspaper career only lasted two lousy months, but I’ve been playing around with a camera ever since.   
    I dress quickly in loose jeans and a thin purple sweater that falls off one shoulder.  To save on time, my hairdryer and trusty paddle brush are ignored, and I leave my damp hair to dry to its natural state of disorderly waves. 
                  I slip an oatmeal granola bar into my backpack, and turn to the refrigerator.  Bending down, I catch a glimpse of Ben’s dark head as he shuffles from his bedroom to the bathroom.  I try not to notice that he’s shirtless and far more muscled than I would have guessed.  The skin covering the hard expanse of his stomach is smooth and curves up to his well-defined arms.  He has no hair on his chest.  He reaches forward for the doorknob and I see a sliver of lime green boxers peeking out from