Page 40 of Felix

I take a break midafternoon, making myself a late lunch as I bop around the kitchen to some eighties music. I suppose I have my mom to thank for that. We may have our differences, but our taste in music isn’t one of them.

The thought is accompanied by a pang. I haven’t spoken to my mom in years, and most of the time, I’m perfectly okay with that. But there are times, like now, where a nostalgic sense of what if? has me thinking of picking up the phone. What if we could get along? What if she could accept me?

What if she didn’t see me as a reminder of all she lost?

It’s fruitless wishing for something I know will never come to pass, but I suppose it doesn’t stop me from yearning for it all the same.

I don’t pick up my phone, instead heading back into my bedroom. My grandmother’s apartment—my apartment—isn’t huge, but the bedroom is a rather decent size in comparison. It’s why my sewing table is set up in here, providing me, serendipitously, a perfect view of Emil’s place.

I retake my seat in front of Bernie and spend the next couple hours finishing the skirt. I go slow, making sure each detail is perfect. The time passes quickly, though, and when I happen to catch movement, once again, at Emil’s, I realize it must be… Yep, five-thirty on the dot.

I grin and grab my phone.

Me: What class do you come from Monday afternoons?

I’ve never asked for specific details about his classes before, but now I don’t hesitate. Emil unravels his tie, setting it on the end of his bed before pulling his phone from his pocket.

Specs: Behavioral Neuroscience.

He continues to undress as I type out a response, and I get a little caught up in watching him. How this man can be so casually confident at times yet bashful at others is fascinating.

Refocusing, I send my message.

Me: What is that, Specs? Talk nerdy to me.

He plops onto the end of his bed, back hitting the mattress and phone held over his face. I have the sudden urge to be closer. Would it be weird if I just…went over there? Probably not, right? We’ve hung out a few times.

As Emil types his response, I slip my feet into shoes, lock up my apartment, and head next door. His lengthy reply comes through as I’m walking up the stairs inside his building.

Specs: It’s basically the science of why we do what we do. How our environment impacts our brains, which impacts our behavior. Humans so often feel as if we’re driven by our emotions and feelings more than logic, but it’s all the same thing. It’s all neural processes. And our brains are more adaptive than we realize. They change based on our individual experiences, and those changes then affect our future experiences, like a circuit. When we understand how and why those changes occur, we can help people break out of their cycle and reroute their neural processes into healthier thoughts and behaviors.

Holy shit.

Me: What’s it called when you’re attracted to intelligence?

Specs: Um… Sapiosexual?

Me: Hold that thought.

I knock on Emil’s door, and he appears a moment later, phone in hand. He blinks at me owlishly before swinging the door wide, apparently having accepted my random drop-ins, which is good news for me.

“I didn’t understand half of what you said,” I admit, stepping inside, “but that was hot as fuck, Specs. I like the way your brain works.”

He huffs a small laugh, nudging his glasses up his nose before closing the door. “I think it could use a bit of rerouting.”

I make an unhappy noise as I toe off my shoes. “No. You’re lovely. Now how do you reroute neural processes?”

Emil follows me into his bedroom, giving me an odd look as I jump onto his mattress. I don’t think it’s a look of displeasure. His forehead scrunches when he’s upset about something, like when he gets stuck on a problem for one of his classes. This is more like he’s trying to decode the situation. He had the same look on his face the first time I snuggled him to death while we watched TV.

“Specs?” I prompt.

He seems to shake himself loose, walking closer and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, uh. It’s like… You know streams?”

My lips quirk. “I’m familiar with them, yes.”

He rolls his eyes slightly, another behavior I’ve become accustomed to. He’s berating himself for the question. “Water follows the path of least resistance down a stream. If you want to change that path, you need to carve out a new one. So you take a stick…”

He looks around, hopping up to grab a pencil and then coming back to the bed. I scoot over as he smooths his hand over the comforter, flattening it. He uses his arm to press a large divot into the fabric, and then he drags the eraser side of the pencil off from that line, drawing a much thinner one.

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