Chemistry

 
 
The train rattled softly through the Georgia pines, golden hour spilling over fields of cotton like melted butter. I was scribbling equations in a weathered notebook—half-work, half-daydream—when the compartment door slid open.  
 
She entered like a controlled reaction: precise, inevitable. Her curls were auburn chaos pinned with a pencil, and her eyes held the warm, calculating gleam of a labradorite gem. A faded "Standing on the Shoulders of Giants"  tote-bag hung from her shoulder, stuffed with a biology textbook and a dog-eared copy of 'Cosmos'.  
 
“Mind if I intrude?” Her voice was honeyed Carolina, laced with laughter. “The snack car’s out of coffee, and I’m morally opposed to facing Alabama uncaffeinated.”  
 
I gestured to the empty seat. She settled in, pulling out a thermos. “Emergency stash. Dark roast with a pinch of salt—cuts the bitterness. Want some?”  
 
I nodded, curiosity overriding manners. “You a student?”  
 
“Teacher,” she said, pouring. “Middle school science. My kids think I’m part witch because I light methane bubbles on fire for fun.” She grinned, handing me the cup. “You?”  
 
“Engineer. HVAC systems. Not exactly… glamorous.”  
 
She tilted her head, studying me like a fascinating specimen. “Glamour’s overrated. You know what’s sexy? Thermodynamics. The way heat 'moves'—it’s everywhere. In your breath, in stars, in the way old ladies knit sweaters for stray cats.”  
 
I blinked. “That’s… the best defense of my job I’ve ever heard.”  
 
The train curved, sunlight catching the silver DNA helix pendant at her throat. Outside, a swamp blurred past, herons rising like gray ghosts.  
 
“Why the South?” I asked.  
 
“Research,” she said, tapping her textbook. “Fireflies. Their bioluminescence is dying—light pollution, pesticides. But there’s a species here that syncs up their flashes, like tiny Morse code love letters. I’m mapping their habitats.” She leaned in, conspiratorial. “Also, my grandma’s biscuit recipe.”  
 
We talked until the sky bruised purple. She explained entropy using her students’ locker room drama. I confessed I’d picked engineering because it felt solid, safe—unlike my childhood, which was neither.  
 
“Safe’s underrated too,” she said softly. “But you know what’s brave? A HVAC system. It doesn’t just endure chaos—it 'negotiates' it. Hot, cold, pressure… you’re a peacekeeper.”  
 
When the conductor called “Savannah!”, she stood, shouldering her bag. “Next time you’re stuck,” she said, pressing a sugar maple leaf into my palm—vivid crimson, veins fractal-perfect—“remember: this wasn’t 'just' photosynthesis. It was a tree deciding to throw a goodbye party for summer.”  
 
I watched her disappear into the station, neon lights haloed around her. In my pocket, the leaf crinkled. On the back, she’d scribbled:  
"ΔG < 0. – E."
 
Spontaneous reactions only.   Her excellence reminded me of good science.  Her kindness reminded me of dreams.
 
Her name was Eleanor.  
We met again—at a firefly preserve, then a diner where she argued with a quantum physicist about Schrödinger’s cat.  
 
“The box is a teaching tool, not a paradox!” she insisted, stealing my fries. “Obviously, the cat’s fine. It’s got nine lives. Basic biology.”  
 
The physicist facepalmed.  I fell in love.  
 
The End (or maybe "ΔG")