General Relativity (12/?)
anonymous
March 24 2010, 00:39:10 UTC
XII. The Experimental Confirmation of the General Theory of Relativity
Dr. Bonnefoy threw back his head and laughed.
“This isn’t funny,” said Matthew in misery, but this only seemed to make his professor laugh all the merrier. Sighing, slumping into the chair in front of Dr. Bonnefoy’s desk, Matthew resigned himself to being the object of ridicule for another minute longer. He knew the hysteria would pass soon. Though he seemed strange and loopy, Matthew’s favorite European Literature teacher had picked up the pieces of his prize pupil more than once (in a given week). He was a candid hand at it.
True to form, after a moment Dr. Bonnefoy wiped his eyes and quieted. “Mon cher,” he said, accent thick, “forgive me. But I don’t see that you have a problem!”
Matthew rubbed his forehead. He wished the dream would go away-all he could picture was Mr. Jones’ gemstone-bright eyes fixed on him amongst the stars. The memory of his skin, warm as space could never be. Fuck. He was going insane.
“Matthew,” cooed Dr. Bonnefoy, lowering into his chair, “I’m being perfectly serious. There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to someone. Least of all Mr. Jones. Mon dieu, that man has an ass like Michaelangelo’s David, you-”
“Oh god, please don’t say that. I know he does,” moaned Matthew in despair.
“A little fantasizing never hurt anyone.”
Matthew did not point out that yes, it had. In fact, Dr. Bonnefoy had alluded slinky things to the dean, Mr. Kirkland, just last week and had gotten a cafeteria tray to the ribs for his troubles. “Yeah, I know. And I have been. Fantasizing, I mean. For, eh, you know, for maybe a year.”
Dr. Bonnefoy startled. “A year!”
“But I’d never met him, really, and now that I have I’ve got weird dreams-okay, it was just one but-there’s something wrong about it. I actually laid in bed this morning and… and I,” and here Matthew faltered, ashamed but unable to lie, “tried to imagine how I might… ask him. If I were to ask him. If I wanted to ask him out. Out, isn’t that the most juvenile-”
“Shh,” said Dr. Bonnefoy, a solemnity to his stubbly face that Matthew hadn’t recalled seeing prior. He held up a hand. “Say no more. I understand now. We are dealing with a very serious crisis."
Oh. Somehow, that didn’t make Matthew feel much better.
(And then Dr. Bonnefoy brought out the half-empty bottle of wine and it just went downhill from there. Especially because after two glasses, Matthew was a complete mess, and after three, Mr. Jones knocked on the door. Because the universe and all her glory hated Matthew Williams.)
Dr. Bonnefoy threw back his head and laughed.
“This isn’t funny,” said Matthew in misery, but this only seemed to make his professor laugh all the merrier. Sighing, slumping into the chair in front of Dr. Bonnefoy’s desk, Matthew resigned himself to being the object of ridicule for another minute longer. He knew the hysteria would pass soon. Though he seemed strange and loopy, Matthew’s favorite European Literature teacher had picked up the pieces of his prize pupil more than once (in a given week). He was a candid hand at it.
True to form, after a moment Dr. Bonnefoy wiped his eyes and quieted. “Mon cher,” he said, accent thick, “forgive me. But I don’t see that you have a problem!”
Matthew rubbed his forehead. He wished the dream would go away-all he could picture was Mr. Jones’ gemstone-bright eyes fixed on him amongst the stars. The memory of his skin, warm as space could never be. Fuck. He was going insane.
“Matthew,” cooed Dr. Bonnefoy, lowering into his chair, “I’m being perfectly serious. There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to someone. Least of all Mr. Jones. Mon dieu, that man has an ass like Michaelangelo’s David, you-”
“Oh god, please don’t say that. I know he does,” moaned Matthew in despair.
“A little fantasizing never hurt anyone.”
Matthew did not point out that yes, it had. In fact, Dr. Bonnefoy had alluded slinky things to the dean, Mr. Kirkland, just last week and had gotten a cafeteria tray to the ribs for his troubles. “Yeah, I know. And I have been. Fantasizing, I mean. For, eh, you know, for maybe a year.”
Dr. Bonnefoy startled. “A year!”
“But I’d never met him, really, and now that I have I’ve got weird dreams-okay, it was just one but-there’s something wrong about it. I actually laid in bed this morning and… and I,” and here Matthew faltered, ashamed but unable to lie, “tried to imagine how I might… ask him. If I were to ask him. If I wanted to ask him out. Out, isn’t that the most juvenile-”
“Shh,” said Dr. Bonnefoy, a solemnity to his stubbly face that Matthew hadn’t recalled seeing prior. He held up a hand. “Say no more. I understand now. We are dealing with a very serious crisis."
Oh. Somehow, that didn’t make Matthew feel much better.
(And then Dr. Bonnefoy brought out the half-empty bottle of wine and it just went downhill from there. Especially because after two glasses, Matthew was a complete mess, and after three, Mr. Jones knocked on the door. Because the universe and all her glory hated Matthew Williams.)
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