The whip-smart, the genius, the Einstein. Any sobriquet associated with academic distinction or any scientific platitude—straight A’s, researcher of the year, Intel scholarship awardee—it was always the Iris. The “next Curie”, the paragon of a science wunderkind—the only Iris of the clan.

In a household where every kinfolk would rather replicate the next 1990s Cindy Crawford or Hugh Grant than going through the hole of a needle for a friggin’ STEM degree, I was seen as a God, the Big Chief. Throwing a party with a giant congratulatory tarpaulin was the initial response in regards to my admission at one of the most prestigious universities in the state.

Not to be an ungracious prick, but once in a while, my eardrums would come close to its verge of pleating from all the overwhelming names my parents would call me. They had infixed it well in me: my capabilities, my achievements, my overflowing meritocracies. The shells glued on the sides of my head would grow weary and immune from all the blandishments. A good way of raising your esteem bar, sure, but quite exhausting as well.

Well, it’s not that I viewed myself the same way as they had portrayed me, but what is planted, grows, right?

Life was that simple until the first week of internship came about. Shouldn’t have taken those honeyed remarks for granted though.

By day two, all interns were dispensed to different technical departments. Seohyun was assigned in the Coding department, while the other female—Amy—was at the accounting office. Majority of the gentlemen were tasked in the engineering departments, learning to design powerful rockets and equipments based on their respective specializations.

It must be fun, you know? Learning and designing and doing research together. I couldn’t relate.

Related search: Jealousy.

When the morning clock would strike eight, all interns must already be behind their desks, in proper uniforms with neatly combed hair. From glossy, black heels of two inches high, the agency showed mercy by allowing females with rubber Crocs slippers. Nevertheless, negatives cancel out positives: I was tasked to come at seven-thirty.

At seven ing thirty.

Once I stepped a foot in the office, fragrance of brewed coffee would emanate through the door, welcoming me like an outset of the warm dayspring. It would have been warmer, better, and much, much tolerable if the doctor, on his swivel chair with his morning paper in hand, would reciprocate my morning greetings instead of a merciless glance on his wristwatch like he was on some kind of a competition. “You’re two minutes late,” His warm greetings would say. “Is seven thirty-five the new seven thirty?” He once said on my fourth day.

Those people who say that scientists and physicist do not have life outside their work, they only know half of it.

The clock in the doctor’s office seemed to always be twenty to thirty minutes late (exceptions are in the mornings, of course.) He didn’t want others to simply live their lives. Damn it. Catching up with the afternoon gossip sessions with my co-interns later became sporadic. Night outs in the unfamiliar Merritt Island was like gold dusts.  

Soon enough, being conferred in the Aviation’s Department—under Dr. Byun Baekhyun, Ph.D’s supervision—meant weekend knockouts due to body and brain fatigue, and weekdays with twenty to thirty minutes allotted for lunch.

With a face and wits like his, and a reputation as impressive as what he possessed, gratitude should have whelmed me first more than any other sentiments, but no. God forgive me for this, but the word remorse could have described it ten-folds better. The captivating hazel eyes, the glace-dripping—almost cloying—timbre of his voice, the taste for a Korean it boy once both gazes meet, the soft brown hair, the slender fingers—who would’ve believed me when I say it was an austere, party-pooper, sourpuss crackerjack behind?

Wristwatches were calibrated to be one third of an hour late during lunch and dismissals, paper drafts that must be printed and stapled well; he was much of a stickler to perfection, an -kisser of supremacy that it hurts. Slouching on the stretch of office hours was his idea of an embargo. When asked to write down at least five suggestions regarding the fabric replacements for the Orion’s parachute system, I was instructed to give out ten—at minimum.

At minimum!

While Doctor Baekhyun was immersed on his oh-so-important businesses, in rubberneck of his CPAN screen with piles of scribbled number-crunching laying helplessly on his desk, I silently placed the folder beside the keyboard and stood back up beside his seat.

His Hugo Boss perfume started to play in my olfactory senses, tiny mole appeared so visibly on the helix of his reddened ear. Having him in such proximity felt anomalous—and alluring in a way. He was the foamy, overflowing effluxes of the pacific sea on a high tide: undeniably enchanting (as much as I hated to admit it), yet has a fair capacity to deluge you whole. Menacingly beguiling might be an accurate term.

“Kevlar? We’ve been using them for ages.” He muttered, squinting on my three-page work, with his other hand spinning and wheeling his maroon Montblanc something pen.

“Yes, but for the pilot and drogue parachutes, we can use them with some nylon hybrid materials.”

A brief hum reverberated.. “Show me the maths tomorrow then. And what’s this on number eight? Nanocellulose?”  Cocking his head a bit, he took off his glasses and faced me. 

There he anticipated for a more substantial, prepped, and “scientific “ response and blinked twice with his droopy, fatgued eyes, clueless of the eyelash strand sticking just beside the bridge of his nose. Looking at him so oblivious yet sobersidedly serious was so comedic. “Yes, Doctor, nanocellulose. They’re lightweight—“

“And you’re smiling?” His eyes narrowed, lips puckered. “What’s funny about Kevlars?”

My lips parted for a moment but hesitated. Heck, there must be a reason why I’d be unfitting for a job in the CIA or the FBI. “You have something on your..” I gently tapped the area under my left eye. “an eyelash or something.” Of course, it was a friggin’ eyelash!

The doctor hastily struggled to locate the tiny strand with his blanched fingertips. “The other side,” I said. For someone who crunches mathematical trajectories like they were his breakfast cereals, watching him drudge to detach  a tiny strand was a notably priceless exposition.

“Let me do it, Sir.” I proffered as he kept missing the spot, feeling a little compassionate. For a jiff, his face plastered a perceivable hint of hesitation but gave in with a subtle nod soon after. Out of embarrassment or helplessness, I had no clue.

I leaned a little closer for the sake of meticulosity and gently took off the strand with my two fingers that could twitch at any moment. The air momentarily felt humid, nimbus of both party’s sapient demeanor was starting to drift away, ten-folds in my part when his minty warm breath touched the tip of my dorsum, eyes on my lower lip—or chin—for two seconds.

Internally flinching at the novel contact, it took me a few subtle pinching of his skin before the hair would stick.

“About the Kevlars—or the nanocellulose rather, what were you saying again?” He shifted his gaze back to my paper with crossed legs.

“They’re lightweight, flexible, and stiffer than Kevlars.”

Slouching towards the desk with a smile playing on his lips, he propped his chin with his fist all before sliding his gaze into mine. “They conduct electricity.”

“They’re way cheaper.”

~~~

When your comrades are delighted, gratified trainees; when the code cracker chum of mine and the bean counter had pleasant, delightsome tittle-tattles to spurt during noon breaks (in which I was mostly not on time), apropos of their accumulated erudition in the workplace, imagine little Iris, and the green glows of her iris. From the ossicles of my vertebrae, there hid crushed bits of jealousy, all plastered by my sudden beaming and opining and a little scratching of the head.

“I told her Oscar’s a cute name for a first baby boy,” said Amy before shoving the bunched up lettuces into .

“Oscar? Seriously? Isn’t that like a dog’s name?” Seohyun, the code cracker of the clique, wrinkled her nose as she sipped her green smoothie (the girl was on a diet). “You should’ve suggested, at least, a more decent name to your good-natured mentor.”

Amy playfully raised a brow. “Really? I think Miss Gray liked it though, she said it sounds… cute, and very child-like.”

“Heck, that name would only reach the list for my dog’s,” After a momentary dawn of what they say a sour look, Seohyun swiftly straightened her posture, face perked up of whatever she’d say or ask or narrate next. “Red or white? Which color of dress would fit me better?”

Facing her completely with eyes narrowed like a thin, crinkled line, I studied her semblance. That pale complexion and well-built centre: well-honed busk, tabular midriff, marked collarbones, as if her profession does not require lengthy hours of weighing her upper body on her . She honestly didn’t have to ask. “Go for red,” I said. “lighter tones of red would fit well with your skin.”

Later on, with a bubbly smile and sparkling eyes, she admitted that it was for the grand wedding of their department’s computer technologist—her mentor—next weekend. “We exchanged numbers this morning! She said I could ask help from her once graduation’s over.” She added later on with a grin as promising as what had been “promised” to her.

The glad tidings were warming to the ears, refreshing to the gray world of my shared office. Those sweet little scoops of the afternoons were the diffusing segments of the peeping sunbeams over the bands of nimbus hazes, and all the rest of that but, still, perhaps, an ignition of the swelling crushed bits between the ossicles of my spine: jealousy; cry for justice.

As a young adult at the dazzling age of twenty-two, my bucketlist had its upper portion reserved for the spot that says having to consort with my internship mentor for a good amount of time. God knows how it had been a fragment of my plausible pipe dreams prior the first day—until it was crushed and crumpled.

“You don’t know if he’s married? God.” Seohyun exclaimed later on with huge eyes, slouching against the backrest.

“I mean, it’s not that surprising; I don’t even know how old he exactly is.”

“The heck? What have you guys been doing in the office? You really never talk?” Amy said, finishing up her meal.

“Maybe working our asses off to death? Yeah Right.” My gaze shifted across the spacious, depressingly-bright cafeteria, eyes passing over the clumps of mavens in formal garbs as easily as onto the handsome figure of the familiar man, sitting as close as to the corner of the room with his chicken and eggs. The doctor wasn’t alone, surprisingly; anoth