Lyla Leviathan turned from her ZRX-9000, where she was analyzing some samples for an experimental psych class, and walked, almost sashayed over to her stack of notes. She leaned over the table, her lavender and magenta ombre hair shielding her notes from my view.
She began couching, a wet hack, as her arm flew up to cover it. "Fuck this."
I paused, staring at her. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, just a-" She started coughing manically. "Sick. Sick, and tired of being sick."
"You might want to go to the med center."
"And what? See a doctor, like you?" She smiled coyly, while reaching for a tissue from the box on top of her ZRX-9000.
"I'm premed, so technically not yet... soon, though." I turned back to the the samples, the corners of my lips rising, as she sauntered towards me.
"Damn."
"Why?" I smiled, pressing a few buttons.
"Well, since you're going to be a doctor, I was hoping you'd figure this out for yourself, however," she sighed dramatically, leaning forward, "there are some fucking amazing pickup lines that come with having an M.D."
"White coat syndrome at its finest." She smirked, rolling her eyes. She was inches from me, the familiar aroma of hours spent in a library, paging through musty books, of fresh brewed coffee, of perfumed vanilla, cozy like Christmas baking on a frigid winter night wafted into my nose.
"We've been over this."
"Have we?"
"White coat hypertension is when a patient has anxiety induced by being in a medical environment, you can test for it by measuring-"
"To see if a patient has elevated blood pressure." I murmured, slipping my hands around her waist, resting them on the small of her back.
"I knew you remembered." She stared into my eyes, levelly, gently parting her lips before closing them. We stood for a few seconds, her body pressed against mine, the machine whirling, the noises of the rest of the student bio research lab drifting through the cracked door. "Speaking of remembering..." She lifted an eyebrow, pressing her lips against my cheek.
"How about you come back to my place for a physical?"
"Solid pickup line, not brilliant, wouldn't try it at a bar, but, it works."
"I'm presuming that's official physh major medical terminology."
"I-" She began couching violently, tearing away from our embrace.
"You're sick, you need to rest."
"Ludicrous." She giggled, resting her head on my shoulder. "I just have pneumonia, I've got meds, I'm fine."
"Lyla."
"Harrison. So we aren't finally going to do this?"
"When you put it so romantically how could I resist?"
"It's bacterial, so not contagious, besides name one person that died from pneumonia."
"I'm hoping that's a rhetorical question."
"He shares your damn name." I shrugged; history wasn't my subject. "William Henry Harrison." My facial expression must have stayed blank, since she started listing his accomplishments. "The US president? Gave a speech for like two goddamn hours in frigid weather? Thirty day presidency? Ring a bell? The Dead Mr. W. H. Harrison?"
"Ooh, that W. H. Harrison, I thought you meant my bioethics professor. Now, Lyla, c'mon, at least, fine, let me buy you coffee or get you back to your dorm." Wilson was finishing his project in the lab across the street and we were going to go to the grocery store to restock our pantry, since Veronica was living with us and the community college didn't have a cafeteria or meal plan, so she needed actual ingredients to cook, not just the beer, microwave pizza, Doritos, and ramen we normally ate if we were hungry but to lazy to get food from any of the campus' restaurants, but he could go on his own, he didn't need me pointing out what Veronica might like.
"Dammit, I wish I could get coffee but generally I prefer my dated to have paid attention in US History in high school."
"Lyla, I-"
"I appreciate your concern, but we're not... Dammit, Harrison, why won't you listen to me when I say I'm fine? October colds and sniffles are so goddamn common, I... I think I am going to go rest." She stumbled past me, jabbing at the ZRX to turn it off, her brow furrowed and her lips turned down, twisted between melancholy and malcontentment.
"Fuck." We weren't dating, we'd never discussed our lab flirtation; it was simple: someone would occasionally squeeze the others ass, someone would make a comment about how attractive the other was looking, we'd make comments about how the supply room was open or how our dorm or apartment was free from roommates, so we could finally do it, we'd make out then go back to doing our research. Occasionally she'd invite me to an art gallery displaying works done by community college students she'd tutored or was a TA for or took a class taught by one of her friends or something, occasionally I'd mention coffee or lunch, she'd say her and her friends were doing a color run and others were welcome, I'd say that I was going to a frat party and whoever could come with, though neither of us ever inquired or accepted. Possibilities lingered in the air every afternoon and we didn't both acknowledging them.
"Hey, you done?"
"Huh?" I glanced up to see Wilson, with his book bag slung over his shoulder. "Oh, uh," I hit a few buttons, before nodding. "Yeah."
"That purple haired girl leaving here seemed..."
"Pissed?"
"Frustrated. She's hot, though."
"I, er, yeah. A bit, I guess. Not really my..." I trailed off. We shared a lab, but were working on separate projects, so we weren't really lab mates, she wasn't my girlfriend, hell, I wasn't even sure if she considered herself a friend. "My type." Types were ridiculous, everyone acknowledged that they were, everyone mocked them, novels, television shows, movies used them as their go to self-aware-somewhat-witty-and-self-depreciating cliche.
"Dude, there's blue lipstick on your cheek, I'm thinking she might be a little." I quickly wiped the lipstick off, as Wilson smirked.
"Maybe a little." I shrugged, trying to suppress the smile that was playing with the corner of my lips. "It's just flirting, though." He raised an eyebrow, as I turned off my machine, cleaning up the area. "Whatever, let's get to the store, since Veronica probably wants actual food for lunch." "Damn, you didn't tell me you liked an artsy psych major." Now was not the time to discuss Lyla, now was the time to discuss how far we could stretch the allowance our parents granted to us for food, since mum wasn't convinced that, had we been left to our own devices, we'd feed her little girl. Lyla and I... There wasn't a Lyla and I, simple as that.
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