a quickly dashed hope of scoring a cup of hot coffee. Instead the director’d insisted on carrying on his vision of frigidity in love by serving frozen unsweetened strawberry Kool-Aid, made even more bitter by the reality of having to watch the second half of the play only because he’d promised a former colleague he’d attend.
Since Graham’d made that exact same promise to the director, Quinn suspected the rest of the audience were riveted to their seats out of guilt and frostbite more than a vested interest in Isabelle’s expansion into chartreuse and her growing love-hate for banana-adoring Beauregard.
“We can wait inside until the car service comes,” Graham suggested. The thin man shivered beside Quinn, pressing in close to keep warm. “That tire is as flat as the play’s dialogue. God, what rubbish that all was. I am so sorry I dragged you to it. I’m sorry I dragged me to it.”
Quinn tried not to mind the touch of Graham’s arm on his side, but it was difficult. As familiar as he was with the other professor, Quinn’s skin ruffled under his shirt at the brush of Graham’s body on his. A far different reaction from his casual stroking of Rafe’s fingers a few nights before.
“It’s a pity your friend couldn’t make it.”
“Don’t think the director would have thought so. He’d have stayed because I wouldn’t leave and made comments the whole time. He was smart enough to weasel out of it.” He paused in his contemplation of the tire. “We’ve got to learn to weasel better.”
Calling a tow truck to change the tire would mean standing around for an hour, and Quinn was tired. He’d put in a long day of counseling students on their papers, with a sidetrack of one male student nearly crying in his lap about a dead goldfish. The papers he dealt with easily, working through the topics until he was certain the students knew what they were doing. The goldfish-mourning basketball player was subsequently passed along to a grief counselor at the student center with a hearty wish he’d feel better.
It took Quinn about five minutes before he realized he’d probably sounded as if he wished the goldfish would somehow get better instead of the student. Thoughts of a yellow-and-white zombie fish lurking in the halls of a coed dorm kept him amused during Beauregard’s long discourse on the perils of a rotten pear in his still life.
“Here, put this on and stay warm. I’ll change the tire.” Quinn shrugged his peacoat off, handing it over to Graham once he got his arms loose.
The brisk afternoon air cut through his T-shirt, although his jeans seemed sturdy enough to hold the chill back. Once the doors had opened, signaling the audience’s release, the theater vomited out people as if it’d eaten too much cake. No one appeared willing to linger, and the theater’s small parking lot was practically empty, save for Quinn’s borrowed sedan and a VW van he suspected the director lived in, based on the piles of fast-food wrappers on the front seat.
Graham’s spine went rigid, and he clasped Quinn’s coat to his chest. “I can’t… I mean, we can call someone. No need for you to catch a cold. Well, to catch a—”
“It’s just a tire, Graham.” Quinn patted his shoulder, then headed to the trunk. “Easy enough to do. I’d tell you to go inside and wait, but you’ll freeze to death in there, even with the coat. Trust me. Five minutes into changing a tire, and I’ll be plenty warm enough.”
Thankfully, the loaner’s spare tire was a standard size and not a rubber donut he’d have to exchange at the dealership. Graham made noises about helping, but Quinn waved him off, hefting the jack out of its hole beneath the trunk hatch.
“How about if you see if you can find us some hot coffee?” Quinn peered down the street. “Actually, if there’s someplace open, stay there and get out of the wind. I can call you when I’m done.”
“Are you sure?” Graham swaddled himself in
Since Graham’d made that exact same promise to the director, Quinn suspected the rest of the audience were riveted to their seats out of guilt and frostbite more than a vested interest in Isabelle’s expansion into chartreuse and her growing love-hate for banana-adoring Beauregard.
“We can wait inside until the car service comes,” Graham suggested. The thin man shivered beside Quinn, pressing in close to keep warm. “That tire is as flat as the play’s dialogue. God, what rubbish that all was. I am so sorry I dragged you to it. I’m sorry I dragged me to it.”
Quinn tried not to mind the touch of Graham’s arm on his side, but it was difficult. As familiar as he was with the other professor, Quinn’s skin ruffled under his shirt at the brush of Graham’s body on his. A far different reaction from his casual stroking of Rafe’s fingers a few nights before.
“It’s a pity your friend couldn’t make it.”
“Don’t think the director would have thought so. He’d have stayed because I wouldn’t leave and made comments the whole time. He was smart enough to weasel out of it.” He paused in his contemplation of the tire. “We’ve got to learn to weasel better.”
Calling a tow truck to change the tire would mean standing around for an hour, and Quinn was tired. He’d put in a long day of counseling students on their papers, with a sidetrack of one male student nearly crying in his lap about a dead goldfish. The papers he dealt with easily, working through the topics until he was certain the students knew what they were doing. The goldfish-mourning basketball player was subsequently passed along to a grief counselor at the student center with a hearty wish he’d feel better.
It took Quinn about five minutes before he realized he’d probably sounded as if he wished the goldfish would somehow get better instead of the student. Thoughts of a yellow-and-white zombie fish lurking in the halls of a coed dorm kept him amused during Beauregard’s long discourse on the perils of a rotten pear in his still life.
“Here, put this on and stay warm. I’ll change the tire.” Quinn shrugged his peacoat off, handing it over to Graham once he got his arms loose.
The brisk afternoon air cut through his T-shirt, although his jeans seemed sturdy enough to hold the chill back. Once the doors had opened, signaling the audience’s release, the theater vomited out people as if it’d eaten too much cake. No one appeared willing to linger, and the theater’s small parking lot was practically empty, save for Quinn’s borrowed sedan and a VW van he suspected the director lived in, based on the piles of fast-food wrappers on the front seat.
Graham’s spine went rigid, and he clasped Quinn’s coat to his chest. “I can’t… I mean, we can call someone. No need for you to catch a cold. Well, to catch a—”
“It’s just a tire, Graham.” Quinn patted his shoulder, then headed to the trunk. “Easy enough to do. I’d tell you to go inside and wait, but you’ll freeze to death in there, even with the coat. Trust me. Five minutes into changing a tire, and I’ll be plenty warm enough.”
Thankfully, the loaner’s spare tire was a standard size and not a rubber donut he’d have to exchange at the dealership. Graham made noises about helping, but Quinn waved him off, hefting the jack out of its hole beneath the trunk hatch.
“How about if you see if you can find us some hot coffee?” Quinn peered down the street. “Actually, if there’s someplace open, stay there and get out of the wind. I can call you when I’m done.”
“Are you sure?” Graham swaddled himself in
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