Page 18 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
“It’s actually designed to preserve plasmid integrity during isolation,” I explained, shifting into what Angel called my “science mode.” “Standard methods can disrupt the very transfer mechanisms we’re trying to study.”
“Interesting approach,” Dr. Barnes noted. “Rather unorthodox, but potentially valuable. Let’s see your results before drawing conclusions.”
The next six hours dissolved into a blur of pipettes, cultures, and centrifuges. During lunch, I sat alone, reviewing my morning’s data while eating a protein bar from my bag.
I glanced over my notes, already thinking ahead to what I’d tweak in the next run. Sometimes, I let myself imagine running experiments in my own lab—one where I couldchase bold hypotheses without having to convince someone else they were worth pursuing. But that kind of dream required funding, credentials, connections. A reality so far off it almost felt fictional.
“First day going well?” asked a friendly voice.
I looked up to see a younger lab tech—Ryan? Brian?—smiling at me.
“Better now that I’m actually doing science instead of making first impressions,” I admitted.
He laughed. “Don’t mind Dr. Barnes. She’s tough on everyone.”
He nodded toward my data. “Those your baseline cultures?”
I nodded, grateful for the subject change. “The growth rate is fascinating. Look at how quickly the resistant strain is outcompeting the control.”
“You really love this stuff, don’t you?” He seemed genuinely curious rather than mocking.
“More than most things,” I admitted. “Bacteria are predictable. They follow rules. Unlike people.”
“I’m Brian, by the way,” he said, extending his hand.
“Kate,” I replied, shaking it. “And thank you for not being offended that I couldn’t remember your name.”
“No problem.”
We chatted casually for a bit.
When I returned to the apartment that evening, my shoulders were heavy with the weight of trying to prove myself worthyof a fellowship I’d already earned. The smell of garlic and herbs greeted me as I opened the door, instantly making my neglected stomach growl in response.
Stone stood in the kitchen, measuring ingredients. A digital scale sat beside cutting boards organized by food group: proteins, vegetables, starches. He was adding exactly two tablespoons of olive oil to a pan.
I watched, fascinated, as he methodically prepared what appeared to be grilled chicken with vegetables and quinoa. Each movement was efficient, each ingredient measured and added in a specific order.
“Are you going to stand there staring, or did you need something?” He didn’t look up from his precise dicing of red peppers.
“Sorry,” I said automatically. “I just didn’t expect you to be so...”
“So what?” Now he did look up, his blue eyes challenging.
“Meticulous about cooking,” I finished. “It’s like watching scientific meal preparation.”
Something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. “Nutrition isn’t something to guess at. Precise macronutrient balance is essential for optimal recovery.”
“That makes sense.” I nodded, genuinely interested. “Your body is essentially your career instrument.”
He considered this analogy, then gave a short nod. “How was the lab?”
“You’re asking about my day?”
“Making conversation,” he said, turning back to his meal prep. “Isn’t that what normal people do?”
“Right. Normal. That thing I’m so good at.” I set my bag down and perched on a barstool. “It was...challenging. I was late, which didn’t exactly impress Dr. Barnes. She’s already skeptical about my research methods.”
Stone added the peppers to his pan. “So, a typical Monday.”
