General Relativity (5/?)
anonymous
January 14 2010, 04:50:13 UTC
V. Behavior of Clocks and Measuring Rods on a Rotating Body of Reference
Matthew managed to put it off for a week.
It was a week of ducking out of class early, even skipping one day, which Matthew never did even when he was on his death bed. It was a week of pretending to write notes, which wasn’t new, but refusing to let his gaze linger over the flex of Mr. Jones’ thighs when he got up on the step ladder to scrawl formulas at the top of the board, which was new. Mostly, Matthew just tried to think of a thousand and one reasons to opt out of the course. He made it to twenty-three.
Then, on Tuesday, Mr. Jones proved that he actually knew his name. Or at least the first four letters of it.
“Matt! Matt, I’m so glad I remembered to grab you today. Stay after class, okay?” All of this said with a wink, the kind you gave friends or lovers instead of your stupid student who was struck dumb at the sight. Matthew nodded when it looked like Mr. Jones wanted a reply, which seemed to work well enough.
He wondered why he didn’t make up an excuse. Then he wondered why he even bothered trying to be in denial. He wasn’t very good at it.
The rest of the lecture was a blur. Matthew rubbed his palms against his jeans under the desk, frantically willing his heartbeat to slow, his insides to stop churning. It’s pathetic, he told himself. You’re past the age when a crush gets the best of you, eh?
The stopwatch that Mr. Jones wore beeped.
The lecture hall emptied.
And then Mr. Jones crumpled his bag of chips up and licked his fingers. That was about the point that Matthew knew he was well and truly fucked.
Matthew managed to put it off for a week.
It was a week of ducking out of class early, even skipping one day, which Matthew never did even when he was on his death bed. It was a week of pretending to write notes, which wasn’t new, but refusing to let his gaze linger over the flex of Mr. Jones’ thighs when he got up on the step ladder to scrawl formulas at the top of the board, which was new. Mostly, Matthew just tried to think of a thousand and one reasons to opt out of the course. He made it to twenty-three.
Then, on Tuesday, Mr. Jones proved that he actually knew his name. Or at least the first four letters of it.
“Matt! Matt, I’m so glad I remembered to grab you today. Stay after class, okay?” All of this said with a wink, the kind you gave friends or lovers instead of your stupid student who was struck dumb at the sight. Matthew nodded when it looked like Mr. Jones wanted a reply, which seemed to work well enough.
He wondered why he didn’t make up an excuse. Then he wondered why he even bothered trying to be in denial. He wasn’t very good at it.
The rest of the lecture was a blur. Matthew rubbed his palms against his jeans under the desk, frantically willing his heartbeat to slow, his insides to stop churning. It’s pathetic, he told himself. You’re past the age when a crush gets the best of you, eh?
The stopwatch that Mr. Jones wore beeped.
The lecture hall emptied.
And then Mr. Jones crumpled his bag of chips up and licked his fingers. That was about the point that Matthew knew he was well and truly fucked.
Oddly enough, it made him feel better.
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