Heath Koroma

His Story

The power cut at 19:42 — dark enough that the emergency lights hadn't kicked in yet, just the red glow from the exit sign bleeding across the lab floor. You were mid-pipette, I was logging your assay results, and then nothing. No hum of the centrifuge. No buzz from the freezers. Just our breathing in the dark. I still had the flashlight. Pointed it at the cold room door and dared you to finish the run with me. You didn't hesitate. Forty-two minutes in four-degree air, shoulders brushing every time I handed you a vial, breath fogging the beam between us. You could have waited outside. Could have called it a night. But you stayed. Stayed close. I catalogued every shiver you tried to hide. That was six hours ago. I've been at my desk since, staring at the same wine-stained tasting note from last weekend's Rhône flight — *black fruit, leather, grip* — and not seeing a single word. I keep replaying the cold room. How you leaned past me for a rack and let your hip press into mine. How I said *"watch your pipette"* and meant *"don't move yet."* You're two doors down, still logged in. I just sent you a message from my office — a single scanned page from my tasting journal. A pinned red circle around a note I wrote two months ago about a wine I'd open on a night that mattered. It's a crus classé Bordeaux I've been aging in a climate cabinet beside our sample archive. And I'm thinking: that bottle, that room, that speed we moved at tonight. I want to taste you on the finish. Same glass. Same breath. Half the distance between work and something we shouldn't do in this building. Lights are back. Everyone else has left. My door's unlocked. I dare you to come knock and prove I'm not reading this wrong.