Aquinas' Story - 2. Aquinas Frets

Doctor Fletcher Jones, PhD., Professor of Ornithology, moved about his house like one of the small birds he studied. Never long in one place, a moment here, then a moment there, utterly unable to settle. Right now, he stood at the sink, absently washing a perfectly clean plate he'd taken out of the dish drain. A minute ago, he'd been sweeping the basement stairs. Two minutes earlier, he'd been straightening up the pencils next to the phone.

Perhaps there were socks in the dryer to sort?

His leg twitched. He simply couldn't keep still.

He'd been kissed. Not just a peck on the cheek: a serious, mind-altering kiss. The kind of kiss that causes a rational person to re-examine one's life, one's priorities, one's choices. The kind of kiss that turns the rational mind to mush.

And he was hardly rational at that moment.

He'd been kissed, quite unexpectedly and very passionately, by his acquaintance from the Religion Department at the College, Professor Tomás Aquino. All right, so Tomás was more than an acquaintance. They'd become friends after Tomás had come to him for statistical help with a paper he was writing.

It was funny how the tall, studious, darker skinned man had worked his way into Jones' consciousness.

An email here, a quick phone call there, a couple of working afternoons together, and suddenly it seemed as if they had known each other for years. He began to believe that twenty four hours without any kind of interaction with the stooped, introverted Associate Professor of New Testament Studies from across campus was an incomplete day.

There was something unusual about Tomás, apart from his height. His features suggested a Filipino heritage, and a receding hairline told of encroaching middle age. Nothing out of the ordinary there. But the deep brown eyes shining out of that expressive face, the incipient smile hiding a new joke or clever play on words, and the deep humility of the man – these things made Tomás extraordinary. At least to Professor Jones.

Then, after a lovely supper out, Tomás had driven him home. And, quite unexpectedly, kissed him while standing in his own driveway.

He still felt it, even though Tomás had gone home. Poor Fletcher had been so stunned by the kiss, he hadn't been able to respond coherently when Tomás spoke to him.

Then something had happened. Tomás drew back. Had he been frightened by that kiss? Did Tomás think Fletcher hadn't enjoyed it? Hadn't wanted it? Had failed to get lost in it? Or was Tomás just being kind, thinking he was simply overtired?

It really didn't matter. Tomás beat a flustered, hasty retreat to his car and vanished into the night.

And now he couldn't keep still; his body practically quivered with nervous energy. He worried about what had sent Tomás away. Something he must have done, or said.

The frustration that he could have done something so foolish and the emptiness at the evening's abrupt end warred in his mind with the incandescent idea that Tomás had found him attractive. Against all the laws of probability, someone – Tomás – had wanted him.

He found himself standing in the dining area. How had he gotten there? He opened a door in the tall oak cabinet standing against the wall. He selected a short crystal glass and withdrew a bottle of very fine single malt, a gift from a departing graduate student.

He slopped a couple of fingers into the glass; then added a little more. He took a generous swallow and let the fiery liquid burn a trail down his throat. Warmth radiated from the inside out. He had to get hold of himself, make sense of this.

Vaguely, he wandered into the living area in the front of the little house and sat, perched, on a narrow wing-back chair. He sipped his drink, and gazed out into the neat book-lined room toward the wood-burning stove that filled the fireplace. He hadn't used it in years.

Tomás had wanted him. For maybe a whole minute, Tomás had burned for him. He'd felt that. For sixty glorious seconds, Fletcher had allowed this man to kiss him, to make him forget about observing everything and cataloguing all the details – and maybe to make him feel something else.

But what? His analytical mind seemed unable to cope with the question.

He'd come out to Tomás at the restaurant, but his friend hadn't missed a beat. Their meal was wonderful and relaxed. And that kiss was definitely evidence that Tomás wasn't put off by him.

How long had it been since he'd been kissed like that? A decade? More? Oh, there had been a few desperate gropes and trysts since he'd left graduate school. He wasn't a virgin. He'd enjoyed the sex, mostly, but somehow, his experiences hadn't left him itching to run out and find a lover.

He had come to the conclusion that, comparatively speaking, his sex drive was somewhat limited. That, and the fact his few encounters started in alcohol-soaked convention receptions, and concluded in dimly lit hotel rooms during these professional gatherings, suggested that he was unremarkable and unattractive. At least, the evidence pointed that way.

Now he had to re-evaluate.

If the gangly, shy, dark haired Religion Professor had crossed the lawn just for that kiss…if Tomás desired him, wanted him enough to kiss him like that...he took another swallow of single malt.

But then what? Why had Tomás fled? Fletcher pondered this.

Was Tomás afraid of him? He knew that in some species of birds, it was usual for one of the mates to be quite touchy, quite volatile. Indeed, some case studies read like observations of spiders, in which mating involved one partner mortally damaging the other.

He discarded that thought.

He made a wry face, and took another sip. It always came back to birds, didn't it? Tomás knew next to nothing about birds. He smiled inwardly at that: Tomás may have been ignorant of birds but not uninterested. In their afternoons working on statistical difficulties, Tomás had asked a number of interesting questions about the avian curios and photos hanging about his office.

Was Tomás afraid of being openly gay himself? He wondered. He supposed this was possible though he had to weigh the intensity and passion behind their kiss against that idea.

That Tomás was conflicted seemed possible, but that couldn't have been all of it. Tomás had left hastily, but not in a fright.

Had he offended Tomás in some way? He couldn't remember having said anything particularly rude or inconsiderate. But then, his mind was hardly concentrating on any kind of coherent conversation while the two men stood together in the driveway. Fletcher had barely managed to make it indoors, his hands had fumbled with his house keys that much.

Or perhaps Tomás had an attack of humility himself.

That sounded much more like the Tomás he knew. In this, he understood the two of them were kindred spirits; both harbored doubts about themselves. He wondered if Tomás simply couldn’t believe what had happened and had run away as reality settled in. For that matter, Fletcher had trouble believing in the whole episode himself. Could it have really occurred? Of course it had.

But what to do? He polished off the last of his whiskey.

If Fletcher stood in Tomás' shoes at that moment, he'd be wallowing in embarrassment; first at initiating the kiss that tilted the world for both of them, and again at fleeing the scene. He looked at his empty glass. He wondered if Tomás was drinking now. What would Tomás would be drinking? Something red and Italian, probably. Fletcher pictured Tomás at a bare kitchen table, head on his arms, collapsed in mortification.

He couldn't stand that thought.

Fletcher's leg twitched. The drink had calmed him temporarily, but he needed to be doing something – anything – that would save the situation. He stirred, restlessly.

He thought about his plans for the weekend. He'd been considering something for the next day, a Saturday. Nothing special, just a short trip up to a freakish birding spot he knew about to check on some sightings circulating through the rumor mill.

Another twitch.

He simply couldn't help himself. Involuntarily, Fletcher rose from his chair, strode across the room, and seized his phone. He wasted no time bringing up Tomás' number. Before he could stop himself, he tapped the button that would connect them.

But something odd happened.

Instead of the usual noises indicating connection and ringing on the other end, Fletcher heard a prolonged silence, then a click, then more silence.

Puzzled, he moved to abort the call. Then he heard a voice sounding from the phone.

"Hello? Hello?"

Tomás. His voice.

"Hello, Tomás?" he managed to answer. His heartbeat suddenly rose.

"Fletcher? Is that you?"

"We must have been calling each other at the same moment," he laughed nervously.

"Oh. Of course. Well, great minds think alike, right?"

How did Tomás manage to joke like that at this moment? Didn’t he feel the same anxiety as himself?

"Um, Tomás, I was thinking…" He hesitated. This didn't have to be hard.

"What?"

"Do you have plans for tomorrow?"

"No, nothing," Tomás responded swiftly. Hastily, even.

"Um. I was thinking about taking a little excursion to a birding spot I know tomorrow. I, um. I wondered if, you might want to come along." The last few words tumbled out quickly.

Silence, for a moment. Then: "Yes. Sure. I mean, I'd love to," came Tomás' voice from the other end.

Relief surged through Fletcher from head to toe. He could breathe again. There would be another time; their friendship wasn't ruined.

"So, should I come pick you up, or do you want to come here?" Damn. He hated how his voice sounded so tentative.

"Umm, maybe you could come get me?" At least Tomás sounded shy, too.

He regrouped. "Fine. But Tomás, there's one thing. You'll have to tell me where you live."

"Oh, of course. Yes." Tomás laughed nervously, then rattled off the address.

"So, then…what time should I pick you up?" He hoped Tomás wouldn't mind an early start.

"What's good for you?"

"Say, how about seven?"

There was a beat, perhaps two, of quiet on the other end of the line. Seven was pretty early for a weekend, after all; but the best time for observation was in the early morning, and…oh hell. He didn't want to put Tomás off.

"Okay. I can be ready by seven," Tomás said a moment later.

He breathed out again in relief. "Listen, just make sure you wear outdoor clothes and hiking boots; the ground is pretty rough in places."

"Um, sure. I can do that."

"Is that all right?" He hoped he wasn't coming across as too pushy, too demanding. Maybe he should have stuck to something easier. Coffee. Breakfast out. Too late now.

"That's fine. I'll see you tomorrow, seven AM." Now Tomás sounded more definite. More relaxed.

This was going to happen. They'd have a day together. He smiled to himself.

Funny how his muscles had relaxed during the conversation.

That night, he laid out his clothes for the next day with far more care than he'd done in years. He readied a pack with extra binoculars, a notebook, and a field snack. Or two.

He slept uneasily, restless in the night.

When he woke the next morning, he lay in bed for a moment, staring into the pre-dawn darkness. All he could think about was spending the day with his friend. With Tomás. And about the searing, passionate kiss they'd shared the night before.

His leg twitched.