General Relativity (17/?)
anonymous
April 28 2010, 05:15:34 UTC
XVII. Considerations on the Universe as a Whole
Next week, Mr. Jones bought him a stuffed whale.
“You do not know,” he told Matthew, face ashen and lip trembling in a way that made Matthew want to touch it, “how really, really, really sorry I am!”
“It’s okay,” said Matthew, holding the whale awkwardly in front of him like it might implode. It was soft and fluffy and light blue, the sort of toy you bought your three-year-old girl, and he was slightly afraid of contamination. But he was more afraid about sticking his fingers in Mr. Jones’ mouth on impulse, so he bore the burden well. “Seriously. No big deal.”
“God, it’s humiliating. I dunno know why Dr. Bonnefoy didn’t stop me,” Mr. Jones babbled, wringing the cuffs of his bomber jacket. Matthew wondered if this was what bothered him all class session; he’d never seen his professor stumble over words out of nerves rather than excitement. “Believe me, okay? I don’t drink a lot. In fact, I’m kinda bad at it. I love Kool-Aid. And when I say I love Kool-Aid, I don’t mean I put anything else in it, just sometimes two packets instead of one, because I want the sugar-”
“Um, are we going to go over my lesson plan?” Matthew interrupted, partly because he was afraid Mr. Jones would have a coronary and partly because he felt a little warmer inside with every word. Kool-Aid should not make him feel flushed; he didn’t even like Kool-Aid.
There was so much gratitude in the way Mr. Jones looked at him that Matthew half-expected (and feared, and wanted, and despaired) he would get a hug. Instead, Mr. Jones patted the stuffed whale like it was a pet dog, turned around to gather up his papers scattered across the desk, and started to talk about the Big Bang Theory. For the first time, Matthew sat down at a desk in the front row, unable to find a reason to do otherwise.
Mr. Jones pushed a desk up to meet his and took a seat, leaning forward. “You already have some background in this,” he said, holding up a battered textbook that was clearly his own so that Matthew could view the diagrams. “The Big Bang Theory’s model relies on general relativity. Good ol’ Al Einstein.” He laughed, and suddenly the words mattered.
And so, Matthew listened, his fingers rubbing the shiny plastic eye of the whale over and over. He thought, I could get used to this.
Next week, Mr. Jones bought him a stuffed whale.
“You do not know,” he told Matthew, face ashen and lip trembling in a way that made Matthew want to touch it, “how really, really, really sorry I am!”
“It’s okay,” said Matthew, holding the whale awkwardly in front of him like it might implode. It was soft and fluffy and light blue, the sort of toy you bought your three-year-old girl, and he was slightly afraid of contamination. But he was more afraid about sticking his fingers in Mr. Jones’ mouth on impulse, so he bore the burden well. “Seriously. No big deal.”
“God, it’s humiliating. I dunno know why Dr. Bonnefoy didn’t stop me,” Mr. Jones babbled, wringing the cuffs of his bomber jacket. Matthew wondered if this was what bothered him all class session; he’d never seen his professor stumble over words out of nerves rather than excitement. “Believe me, okay? I don’t drink a lot. In fact, I’m kinda bad at it. I love Kool-Aid. And when I say I love Kool-Aid, I don’t mean I put anything else in it, just sometimes two packets instead of one, because I want the sugar-”
“Um, are we going to go over my lesson plan?” Matthew interrupted, partly because he was afraid Mr. Jones would have a coronary and partly because he felt a little warmer inside with every word. Kool-Aid should not make him feel flushed; he didn’t even like Kool-Aid.
There was so much gratitude in the way Mr. Jones looked at him that Matthew half-expected (and feared, and wanted, and despaired) he would get a hug. Instead, Mr. Jones patted the stuffed whale like it was a pet dog, turned around to gather up his papers scattered across the desk, and started to talk about the Big Bang Theory. For the first time, Matthew sat down at a desk in the front row, unable to find a reason to do otherwise.
Mr. Jones pushed a desk up to meet his and took a seat, leaning forward. “You already have some background in this,” he said, holding up a battered textbook that was clearly his own so that Matthew could view the diagrams. “The Big Bang Theory’s model relies on general relativity. Good ol’ Al Einstein.” He laughed, and suddenly the words mattered.
And so, Matthew listened, his fingers rubbing the shiny plastic eye of the whale over and over. He thought, I could get used to this.
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