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It was raining outside that day when Professor Barnes first made his presence in the afternoon class. Some professors said he would take the empty place of the old professor who had retired from her position. That very first day, you remember, Professor Barnes stood a little stiff at the front, as if he had no idea where to put his hands at—behind his back or on the desk—he would seem to be almost in an awkwardly looking way. “Hi,” he greeted the students just to break away from the silent discomfort. All of your classmates then answer him hollowly in return, even though it sounded very judgmental. You didn’t say a word, however, you barely speak in class unless it actually mattered.
Professor Barnes was a very punctual person, just as you were. At least, that was the first thing you noticed about him. Frequently, you would find him sitting at the desk, reading his book while waiting for his students to arrive. “Hi,” Professor Barnes greeted you every time you showed up before the rest. But that was it. You couldn’t be careless about him. In fact, he seemed like a boring old man, his jokes were always outdated and your friends in class never really understood it enough to even chuckle at.
He began to learn about your name weeks later. Yes, the thirty minutes before class when no one arrived because it was still too early. That was also the moment he began to observe your quiet presence and that helpless melancholy in those eyes. But that was it. He didn’t say anything about that except ask about the book you were reading. “The Prince,” you said. “Do you like it?” he continued, but your face always remained impassive. “It is interesting enough.” Then, it became like a habit. Those thirty minutes together, reading something you were both interested in. He would sit in the front and you at your table, letting the quiet atmosphere cloud the room until the loud voice of your classmates interrupted.
During his teaching, sometimes his gaze held at you a little too long before breaking it when he turned back to the whiteboard. However, he never called out your name just to share your opinions or answer his questions, he would just call somebody else. Perhaps he noticed that you disliked speaking in the middle of the room unless it was interesting enough to you. He didn’t force, never. He would let you speak when you wanted to, even though you never did.
Professor Barnes was a very intellectual man. You recall, his pen would be flipped in his hand in an impressive movement every time the ideas he was sharing started to become intense and excited. You always noticed in their eyes when someone was passionate about something and his steel blue eyes appeared to be lively, his speech would be confident during his teaching. It was difficult to deny that, most of the time, his criticisms of existing theories were quite impressive to you because they were always insightful and unexpected.
Despite your unwelcome presence and a weary, unsmiling gaze, he began to wait after class, waiting until you finished packing all of your belongings. And the helpless melancholy in your eyes started to be unbearable for him. He noticed too much about you, those little subtle movements in discomfort when some other students barged into the room with a loud voice and blunt manner or when your brows moved a little when his opinions about something seemed to be against your thoughts. But still, he waited and you both started to leave the classroom together more often. “What would you do after graduating from here?” He always asked a simple, yet deep question, almost sounding as if he would like to prolong the conversation before you reached your boyfriend’s car in the parking lot. “Go abroad.” you said, “and do what?” he would extended the conversation, “do whatever.” you ended it that way.
Professor Barnes never crossed your boundaries. Every time you ended his conversation, he would stand there at the entrance of the building, watching you disappear in the car, seeing your boyfriend reach you for a deepened kiss behind the sheer window. There was a time during the kiss, your gaze accidentally found at his through the transparent window. You remember that at the moment he tugged his hands under his brown coat before disappearing behind the corner and his face was blank.
He was never absent until a few weeks later, when he disappeared for three weeks without reason and no one around you seemed to care enough about his absence. Another professor temporarily took his place, a very old man, much older than Professor Barnes. The class became dull to you, the professor spoke either too slowly or too quietly. He would always ask you to share your opinions in the middle of the class, always, especially you, just because you always got the highest score from his other class. But you endured his presence until it seemed to be unbearable. A cigarette would be dangled between your lips as you leaned on the wall outside during your unexcused absence; You simply disappeared, skipping the class like you weren’t the best student at all.
Those expressionless eyes of yours stared at the tree, unwavering. You began to observe everything, the leaves flowing with the breeze, the birds that chirped, anything just to kill the time before the familiar sound of someone’s car pulling into the parking lot. It’s his car, Professor Barnes, you remember. There was a book held close in his hand as he approached you. The cigarette was later stepped on by your feet and he handed the book towards you. ‘1984 by George Orwell’, it said. “I bought it on my way back from Brooklyn.” Of course, you once told him that it was difficult to find a copy of it around here. Your hand then received it from him in a deliberate movement. “You went to Brooklyn.” It wasn’t a question, not really, almost like a confirmation of his unexpected disappearance. And that moment you realized, you had waited for him without noticing until he eventually appeared before you. Perhaps you just missed his awkward presence and obsolete jokes. But Professor Barnes still saw that pensive sadness in those eyes.
Things returned to the same routine, the silent wait after class, the lasting conversation before you disappeared in that car. It was like that until it changed after that one evening in the parking lot. The stinging sound of the slap from you loudly the place, your boyfriend's cheek turned red as you walk away from him. It wasn’t unexpected after all. You always knew that this would one day happen, that his recklessness and indifferent nature would lead him to cheat on you.
Professor Barnes, who had stood there at the entrance where you had ended his conversion earlier, had observed everything with his usual blank face when you came nearer with a more expressive face now, tears in your gaze and pain that was palpable now. “I want to go home,” you spoke with a trembling voice before passing him to his car. He knew you would do it, asking for help, the help that he was more than ready to offer, because at that exact moment he could no longer stand your helpless melancholy anymore.
Professor Barnes opened his car door for you before you allowed yourself in. In his car, the silence that should be something peaceful, turned heavy. And he had stared at the far side of the parking lot for a minute until he broke the serious tension. “You should have slapped him harder.” He just said the most uncalled-for thing out loud, but because it was easy to tell that your ex-boyfriend was nothing but a rebellious person by his manner and his talk, Professor Barnes noticed it all. That was why it made him express his worry and perhaps frustration, too. “He didn’t deserve you.” He then tightened his grip on the steering wheel before turning to your direction. “Why did you do that to yourself?” Dating the most slacker person he ever met when you were doing good about your studies and grades, he even knew you would received the first-class honor on your diploma because of how studious you were. He was just a little disappointed at your decision. Perhaps you were too young to understand things, he lastly made an excuse for you in your silence. He just hoped that from then, there would be no more pain behind those beautiful eyes, no more quiet presence, and no more unspoken things in your mind anymore. You were his student and he only wished you the best.
It went on, the routine, but this time it became more intentional and almost obvious. It stretched longer, the time after class. You would both stay a little longer, discussing books and controversial topics about history, politics, philosophy and he would listen to your honest thoughts about things. Then, when in class, you started to feel comfortable enough to share your thoughts against him in the middle of the crowd, but Professor Barnes could rebut back in the most casual manner every time, which really impressed you. It was always a long stay in the evening. At times, security guards would ask you both to leave so they could close the main gate after hours. That was when he finally heard your soft chuckle for the first time when a guard walked in, complaining to them.
Things changed, time flew a little too fast for you then. People often say if you feel that way, it is because you are really happy and maybe they are right. You later changed your routine by coming to his class a little earlier, almost the same time as him now. Questions would begin to be started by you first and not him anymore. “What did you do before coming here?” or more personally when he let you know more about his personal life, “How was your life back in Brooklyn?” And he would answer all of your curiosity with intension. Step by step, he allowed you to walk into his life and, in the meantime, the wall you built got lower and lower in every question he asked. The boundaries became blurry and the line that you drew almost disappeared.
Those conversations after class then changed. From simple questions and discussion, it became invitations. “I liked the opinion you shared in class today… let me buy you a drink.” And it was always a yes from your mouth, you never refused his offer for once. It kept going—these invitations—when he knew you would always answer the same thing. “There’s a rerun of Come Live With Me at the theater; I thought you might be interested.” and you would keep saying yes and yes despite the fact that you haven’t heard of the old film before but being with him is more than enough, you quietly admitted.
The final scene of this film is when two protagonists embrace one another and kiss passionately behind a sign that says: ‘All's well, that ends well.’ for a moment before the sign falls down the floor, exposing the intimate scene to both of you. Their kiss continues until ‘the end’ shows up on the screen and the soundtrack ends perfectly. “That was really good,” you smiled at him in the dark. “It was.” Professor Barnes answered shortly after, turning to your direction, seeing you through the dim light from the end credits on the big movie screen. The seats were near. Yes, they usually were, but the gap started to close when at last you lean in, sensing more of his presence. Professor Barnes didn’t move away either, he simply looked into your eyes, almost like he was waiting for your further movement.
But you stopped all of a sudden, hands gripped tight on the armrest, unsure if he would want it too—the kiss, the touch, the love or whatever it can be called. In desperation you gave in, saying in a quiet voice, “Thank you.” The theater was pitch black at the end of the end credits. You couldn’t see him or hear him either. There was only silence in between.
But before you could move away from his sight, allowing more gaps and air to fill in, his palm reached for your cheek, stopping you in place. He caressed it gently with his thumb and then you felt his lips pressed against the corner of your lips in the dark, his touch made you feel as though he was so scared to feel all of you because he was hesitant and stalled. Those eyes of yours shut afterwards, focusing only on the sensual sensation of his lips. His other hand started to messily move to the back of your neck later, rubbing the sensitive area in an excited rhythm. A few seconds followed, finally, his lips desperated for more and that moment you could feel his courage through it—the deepened kiss on your tender lips. It was desperate, hungry, and almost in a filthy way. Your breath faltered under his touch, it was irresistible, he was so irresistible to you.
Then, the lights flicked on, exposing the intimacy you both just had. The staff did not see it in time, luckily, but that was when the kiss stopped and the sensation disappeared.
Outside the cinema, the wind breezed through your face, your hair, your clothes. Every part of your body was cold except your hand, in which he held close under the pocket of his warm coat. Each step during the walk was overwhelming—the warm touch of his palm, the silence that was about to explode, the kiss that was left unfinished—everything was intoxicating.
Finally, when the car door shut, the intensity exploded under his salacious touch. His hands roamed all over your body, every part that he could reach. Your breath hitched next to his ear as you did the same, feeling every part of him. The second kiss came soon after. It was rough and searing and depraved. Professor Barnes couldn’t care less about how thin his car window was and how naked the intimacy seemed to be. He couldn’t focus on anything else, his head became a blur in your touch because at the moment he finally got into you, he broke the wall, he blurred the line you drew. You let him in eventually, deeply and intimately. He destroyed the wall that no one else ever could, he took that helpless melancholy away at one touch and he gave you this—only this—his honest love.