Later that week, Eric poured himself a second cup of the sludge that his department called coffee and waited for the photocopier to finish running off his handouts for the next day's classes.
"Hi, Eric," a husky, feminine voice murmured up close to his ear. Eric jumped, spilling a glob of the scalding black tar onto his bare forearm.
"Ow!" he cried. "Damn it, Celia, what did you do that for?"
Celia Clemens, a colleague of Eric's, laughed softly. "Sorry, pal. Didn't realize you were off in your own little world."
Eric nodded. "Sorry. Still got that virus problem on my mind, I guess." It was a lie. He'd been daydreaming about Lori Tremain again. He just couldn't seem to get those big brown eyes out of his mind, but telling that to Celia would essentially be taking his life in his hands.
