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it.”
    “Was he going to be a nude model for you?” Foster asks, totally oblivious.
    “No.” I half-laugh. “Is that what you think all artists do? Look at nudes all day?”
    He shrugs. “That’s how they’re portrayed in movies. I figured they were into it for the real-life porn.”
    I crack up. “You must think we’re all a bunch of horny bastards. If that were true, don’t you think that every guy in a fraternity would be an art major?”
    “Maybe they secretly want to be.”
    “You might have a point. If you must know, Wolfie—”
    “Wolfie?” He raises his brows.
    “My friend—his name is Wolfgang—was going to go downtown to the fountain on the square with me tonight, so I could take some night shots for my project. The day ones are ready to go, but I need different lighting.”
    “In the nude?”
    “No.” I giggle. “He was just going as a chaperone, so I could take some pictures of the fountain and not have to worry about watching my back. When you’re behind the camera, all you see is what’s through the lens. It’s a safety thing. I’m thinking about risking it and going alone.”
    “Don’t do that.” He gives me the are-you-a-total-moron look. “That’s stupid. I’ll go with you, if you really need to go.”
    “Stop it. You don’t have to do that. It’s late enough as it is, and you have a test in the morning.”
    “So? It’s not like I have a curfew.” He places his book into his bag. “And you shouldn’t be down there alone at night. I’ll stand with you and watch your back while you take your pictures.”
    “You would really do that?”
    “Sure.” Foster pushes the bridge of his dark glasses higher. “Why not? Weren’t you sent here to—how did you put it? Babysit me? I can return the favor.”
    “I don’t know what to say.”
    “Most people usually just go with thank you.”
    “Then, thank you.” I smile.
    “You’re welcome.”
     

 
    The crisp night breeze sweeps over my bare hands carrying my photography equipment as Foster and I tread across the stone square plaza toward the illuminated large fountain at its center. Hues of yellow, purple, pink, and gold light up the individual streams of water dancing around the sculpture, creating a lucid rainbow of curves in the air.
    “I’ll set up over there,” I say, pointing to a well-lit space about twenty feet from the rim of the fountain.
    The temperature lowers as we edge closer toward the moving water.
    “I should be able to get a few shots here, and then I’ll likely have to change position.”
    “Sounds good,” Foster says near my side, tucking his hands into his taupe canvas jacket. “What should I do?”
    “Just be a good guard dog.”
    “Do I need to bark?”
    “Only if you want to.”
    I set up the tripod, lengthening the legs to the appropriate height, extract the camera from my bag, and clip it onto the head of the stand, firmly securing it. Peeking through the lens, I frame the shot and adjust the angle of the camera to achieve a desirable composition.
    Fingers crossed this goes well .
    Sometimes, the process of getting the right shot is more trial and error along with a little bit of luck.
    I shoot, capturing eight images in a row, and then readjust the angle of the lens upward. I take five more shots as the sound of water plunging into the small pool at the bottom of the fountain fills the quiet evening.
    “What’s this all about?” Foster questions.
    I change the aperture. “Are you asking a philosophical question about life?” I grin, teasing him. “The age-old question, what does it all mean?”
    “No.” He chuckles. “I think Gandhi and a bunch of ancient Greek guys covered most of the what-does-it-all-mean stuff. It’s highly unlikely your views on that could possibly trump those.”
    “How do you know?” I peek at him. “I could make a very strong argument. Don’t you think it’s kind of premature of you to disregard my views so quickly?”
    “Depends. Do you