FEEL

15. Rubatosis

Rubatosis ~ the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.

~ The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows ~

~°~

I want to get into his head.

Mr Pierce stands before the class, one hand in his pocket, the other with a chalk poised between his fingers as if he were holding a cigarette while he passionately explained a poem we'd been reading today.

Twice, he'd looked my way. His gaze remained professional, no evidence of last night's events having fazed him in the slightest. While they tucked me into bed and guided my dreams, they drifted out of his head like the facial features of a random passerby.

I do a leisure sweep of his body. The gray sweater he wears over the dress shirt grasps his broad shoulders and strong arms firmly, gripping them as tightly as a woman would while he pleased her. His black trousers, like it was tailored for his long legs, traced two dim lines towards his crotch, like a map to guide the way to a blissful paradise. His dark hair meets the gray light outside and adapts a more raven color. Blue eyes lift towards me again.

Oh, my god...

Heat engulfs my skin as the blood beneath the surface rushes like mad across my veins. My lips part, bewildered, enthralled, and his knowing gaze falls away. The glint in his eyes, the way they crinkle ever so slightly as he smiles with them instead of his lips, tell me that he's aware of what he's doing to me. And contrary to what he said last night about me being just his student, he quite enjoys my hot scrutiny.

The bell rings and the class piles out. Mr Pierce is followed by a group of students with whom he's having a conversation with, leaving me no chance to talk to him. His office is locked during lunch and his car had left the parking lot by the time I was out of the school gate.

I'm being avoided.

"Real mature," I tell him the moment he opens the door to his apartment, glaring up at his tall frame. He was at least a foot and a half taller, but I felt much bigger than him at the moment. "Avoiding me today, that was very grown up of you."

"What are you doing here, Aquila?" Even though he asks this, he widens the door, moving aside to grant me entrance. As if he wouldn't allow his disapproval of my being here get in the way of his manners.

It was a long and cold walk here. Due to the distance, the drizzle outside had gotten hold of me long enough that my school jersey and pants are damp and my low puffy bun is filled with wet water particles.

The real answer to his question was that I was delaying going home. After everything that had happened last night, I'll do anything to stay away from that place for longer and unfortunately for me, I have no extracurriculars.

The other was, "I wanted to talk to you. About last night."

His head nods solemnly, and he guides me to the living room. There's a book on his coffee table, a bookmark stuffed in just towards the end of it. I read the dark letters on the cream cover. Lone survivor, by someone named Marcus Luttrell

"Coffee or tea?" he offers while heading to the kitchen.

"Tea, please."

"How do you like it?"

"Three sugars, no milk."

The kettle boils. I pick the book up, opening the first page and scanning its contents. I can hear him move around the kitchen, open the cupboard to get the cups. I flip to the back of the book, reading the synopsis. It's about a war. Fascinating, what he liked to read.