I sit staring at his quarter-full beer bottle. The label bleeds with dew, and his fingerprints frost the glass. Cursed with a brain that can never just let things be, I am trying to calculate the approximate volume of the remaining liquid. I am furiously racking my brain for the mathematical formula for ‘volume’ when he says, “The rooftop of my building has a great view of the Empire State Building. Want to come over?” His words hit, and I notice his index finger tracing the rim of the bottle. It manages a magnetic balance between nervous and sure. Witnessing this balance pushes me to panic-grab the metallic backing of my earring as I try to render myself still. ~ Two hours prior, I was grading papers in my classroom. One of my legs bore a properly fitting knee high sock; the other rested on a chair, knee high sock folded down to expose a large bruise on my shin. I was biting the left earpiece of my glasses when my coworker (let’s call him ‘****’ for, you know, some go...