"No, this won't do." I snapped another book shut and glanced at the growing pile of open volumes spread out around Yesenia. Thanks to my help, her source material was multiplying at an impressive rate, but processing it was another story entirely. Page after page, she filled her notebook in a neat, tiny script, barely keeping up with the task of citing her references for the next stage of work.
"You'll spend an eternity just collecting material," I pointed out, "and another eternity typing it all up."
Yesenia lifted her gaze from the notebook and frowned at me.
"Why would I need to type it up?"
"Well, how else are you going to submit your paper?"
She lifted the open notebook in front of her, holding the top corners delicately between her fingertips.
"A flatbed scanner fits a full spread. I'll scan, save, and send the whole thing as a single file."
I leaned closer until my head was level with hers and peered at the first lines.
"I doubt anyone could read even a single word without a magnifying glass."
That was my mistake. My chin brushed lightly against her shoulder — and I realized, too late, that during her work she must have tossed her long chestnut hair back, leaving her neck bare. The scent of warm human skin hit me like a blow, searing my throat with thirst before it turned, in the next breath, into the nauseating stench of wet dog. I recoiled at once.
It was the kind of shock a person might feel when staring at a perfect slice of pizza — steaming cheese stretching with every imagined bite, tangy tomato sauce blending into buttery warmth — only to suddenly realize that one of the toppings is a vicious slice of jalapeño.
That was exactly how Yesenia's scent struck me: human, simple, irresistibly tempting at first, only to twist into something repulsive mid-breath. How many dogs did she own, for that smell to cling so stubbornly?
"All right," she said, snapping the notebook shut and handing it to me. "What do you suggest?"
"We could transfer your notes to my laptop and continue working there. I'd also suggest verifying your citations online and adding them as needed from the notes."
Yesenia groaned, leaning back in her chair and tilting her head toward the ceiling. Her slender fingers began to massage her temples.
"That'll take forever. Maybe it's not worth the effort."
"You're forgetting who's sitting next to you — a writer. If there's one thing I can do, it's type fast before the thought slips away."
Yesenia's gaze slid to the notebook in my hands, tracing the spine bristling with colorful tabs.
"Even with a professional at my side, it'll still take forever."
I shrugged.
"Sooner or later, you'll have to do it anyway. Better sooner. Besides, you don't need to retype everything. Some of it probably doesn't fit your new direction anymore. I say we start with what we found today and see where that takes us."
"Sounds reasonable," she said, interlacing her fingers and stretching in her chair to ease her back. "Looks like we'll need coffee."
"A lot of coffee."
"I'll see if I can get us some." She rose slowly, as if shedding the weight of fatigue took effort. "Maybe there's still something left in the machine after breakfast."
"They serve breakfast here too?"
"Yes — for those who want to stop thinking altogether and just enjoy nature. The food's simple: porridge, sliced fresh vegetables, local berries and fruit. Sometimes they do cottage-cheese pancakes or omelets. Ildar and I go there now and then. You're welcome to join us tomorrow, if you like."
"First we need to make it to tomorrow," I joked, though from the way Yesenia's face fell, my tone had come out darker than intended. "I'll think about it, but no promises. My boyfriend loves to cook, and I'm… let's say, not a morning person. If I could, I'd wake up only after noon. But somehow there's always a handful of things that must be done early — as if the whole world were built for larks just to spite us owls."
"Isn't that what vacations are for? To finally catch up on sleep?"
I tried to smile.
"Only if you don't have a deadline breathing down your neck."
"For someone with a looming deadline," Yesenia said, slinging her bag over her shoulder, "you spend an awful lot of time solving other people's problems."
I shrugged. It wasn't as if I could tell her the truth — that she was probably the only person around me who ran less risk of being drained dry, thanks to that faint, repulsive scent of wet fur clinging to her clothes and skin. Not to mention, she'd appeared in that strange file that had mysteriously shown up on my laptop.
"I guess that's just the kind of person I am," I said aloud.
"Psychologists call that the 'savior complex,' you know."
"Oh?" I smirked, amused by the irony. If anyone fit that description, it was Mark, not me. "And here I thought you were applying to a completely different program."
"You never know where you'll end up in ten years," she replied with a shrug. "It's good to take an interest in a bit of everything. How else can you find what's truly yours if you only ever look in one direction?"
"For a conversation this philosophical," I said, "I'll need at least one strong cup of coffee to start with."
"Milk or no milk?"
"That depends," I sighed. "How bad is the coffee here?"
Yesenia grimaced and wobbled her hand in the air — exactly the kind of gesture that confirmed my worst fears. Really, what else could I expect from a place run by a perpetually irritable landlady if not coffee roasted into charcoal?
"In that case," I said, resigned, "milk. And plenty of it."