Date: Sat, 30 Aug 2008 08:11:06 -0400
From: montrealormolu@aol.com
Subject: The Glance chapter 8

Chuck sat at his desk, staring at the open door. He shook his head,
realizing that he had been staring into space for a good five minutes. The
doorway was still empty. What was he thinking? He had work to do --
papers to correct, homework assignments to think up, lessons to plan. And
here he was, staring into space. There was no one in the doorway.

He sank back into reverie, his good intentions of a moment ago already
forgotten. He licked his lips; he could almost taste John. His thoughts
kept slipping back to the past couple of days, to the bedroom, to dinner
together, to the surprisingly good breakfast just before he dashed out the
door. He had had a really good time with John. He couldn't really believe
that it was only a couple of weeks. He'd gone to the church on a whim,
restless, searching for something. There was John, dressed in his
ecclesiastical vesture, earnestly leaning forward to make a point during
the sermon, reaching out to the people to draw them in. He was so cute!

Maybe he was ready now. It had been a couple of years since his last
long-term relationship. That one had ended badly. Mike had been such a
bastard, cheating on him and then leaving without even a note, just a
message on the answering machine, "Chuck, I've found someone else and I'm
moving out. The keys are on the desk. Bye." Five years together and that
was all, "Bye." Not "love ya," not "I'm sorry," nothing but "bye." He still
found it hard to believe just how cold it was. He and Mike had played
together, they had fun together, they ... Well, that was over now. Mike had
gone. He'd spent a miserable year after that, depressed and grieving. Then
he'd begun to heal. He realized that he had put a lot into the
relationship, a lot that wasn't really there. He was a romantic. He knew
what he wanted and he had hoped that Mike was it.  The healing had been
slow, and the move down here had been a part of it. He needed to start
over, make a clean break. He'd lived in the same city for most of his life,
even going to college there. Maybe he just needed to grow up and move
on. So he had, and here he was in a new city, teaching at a new
college. And -- it looked like he was beginning a new relationship.

He shook his head and looked down at his desk. There was a paper there,
with red marks all over it. Yes, he had been reading one of the student
papers. Why couldn't they learn how to use Spell-Check? He really didn't
think he should be correcting English in college, especially not in a
fourth year class. Oh well, back to the grind. His eyes moved down the
paper, his hand automatically correcting spelling, punctuation, and grammar
as he went along. It was difficult sometimes to follow the content of the
paper when he was distracted by the errors. He'd gotten used to it over the
years, but it was still a distraction. He put that one aside and took the
next one from the stack, and began all over again -- only another five to
go. He sighed gently and continued his task.

The bell rang again, announcing another class ended and another to
begin. He stretched, putting his pen down, leaning back in the chair and
reaching back, his shirt pulled taut across his chest. He ran his hands
through his hair, and rubbed his eyes. He pushed his chair back from the
desk and got up. He was restless. He'd finished the papers, and his mind
was awhirl. What to do now? He decided to go for a walk. He went out,
closing his office door behind him, and began walking down the hall. He
went down the stairs and out the front door of the old academic building,
bursting into the sunshine outside. Standing at the top of the outside
steps, he looked around at the students milling in front of the building,
hurrying to and fro. The whole scene reminded him of a busy anthill,
student ants rushing around, graduate student ants walking more slowly,
carrying bundles of papers under their arms, professor ants walking
purposefully, attended by their favorite student ants -- all of it having
a randomness about it and yet nobody crashing into anybody else. He smiled
at his own whimsy, then walked down the steps to join the throng. He, too,
was now one of the ants.

He walked over to one of his favorite trees on the Commons. It was on a
slightly raised hillock, giving a clear view of the whole area. The sun
shone down on everyone alike, dappling the ground underneath the tree. He
sat down and leaned back, letting his legs stretch out in front of him. And
he just looked, looked at everyone, seeing no one in particular, just
looking. In his mind's eye, he saw John. He built up the picture of John
standing there in the bedroom; his eyes ran over John's body, his torso,
muscled yet smooth, his long legs, his cute little ass. He sensed himself
stirring, aroused just by the image of his lover. There, he said it, at
least to himself. John was his lover. That felt good, complete. Just
admitting it to himself gave him a sense of peace and contentment. He knew
that he wanted this relationship to go on, to develop. But did John?