There was no greater sin to Jesús de Torres y Pineda than returning to a land previously withdrawn from. Like a pup making its slow approach to a friend-turned-assailant, Jesús had woken that morning with the annoying pressing need to right a wrong that he had made by his own foul temper. He had said his apologies to Rafael as soon as he had made them, but he had never been the one he had insulted and poked beyond his better nature.
The idea that Rafael and Zelda Rhodes had met before (or in addition to such an event, fucked) did not anger him, nor did it claw at the insensibilities or insecurities that would’ve hurt a lesser man… (or at least, he did not think so, not when it concerned his very best friend), what remained was the ghost of something unsaid — or rather, Jesús pride.
One of the last times they had seen one another (before Amira, before Tarragona and the excavation of Tarraco), Jesús had been painfully close to spilling over his top — swollen and uncomfortable he had wanted Zelda as if he had never experienced desire in another person, as if without a certain release he would burst and shatter into nothing. Of course, nothing had come of it, for before either of them could have relented to that taut string of ‘would theys’, Zelda had left and he had buried his attraction as one did a lit match into the sand.
He had left Farah in the hands of a nanny, who was still hired despite her laps in professionalism that had allowed Farah to read manuscripts meant for older students and the questionable lessons she had imparted if only because Jesús could not say no to those he had come to consider close to his familial nature. Still, he left her in capable hands as he pushed back his hair that had long since grown a little too long and deserved a trim to keep within the boundaries deemed suitable to a University Professor, before he finally took to the street.
If by fate or the turn of fortuna’s wheel, it so happened that his rented abode lay not far from Zelda’s own front door, merely (he assumed) because they both worked in similar circles: though it was to be said that she was a curator of her own right and intellect rather than a teacher forced to the profession in order to facilitate a true passion. Nonetheless, he walked the roads he had long since come to know and understand, for after nearly ten years he had cast his shadow along such paths, skipping over small dips and heights that yearned to trip an unsuspecting passenger — what harm could one visit do to such a man?
Absently he thought of something to offer her, as if he were set to go on some grand pilgrimage in order to lay an offering at an altar. But mostly, Jesús thought only of what or how to say things. As such he forgot to linger over the very idea of presenting a bunch of seasonal flowers (of which were vastly sparse and difficult to find due to the month they found themselves in) or something more casual like a bottle of wine he been had sent from Tarragona by a student who worked for him on the ground whilst he was cast the four walls of his office.
By the time he found himself beside the very door he had shunned from the first acknowledgement of its existence, Jesús was empty handed. Smoothing his vest, he made one last attempt to push his hair into submission before rasping his knuckles against her door, staring at the presented wood as one did in a state of nervous distress. He owed this to her, to his sense of self and mostly to his daughter who had always admired the curator whenever she was allowed to visit the Museum in its complete glory. Hesitantly, he lowered his gaze for a moment if only to collect the nerves that had caused his outburst at the dinner, his tongue running across his lower lip before he took one single breath, raising his hand to knock once more.
The idea that Rafael and Zelda Rhodes had met before (or in addition to such an event, fucked) did not anger him, nor did it claw at the insensibilities or insecurities that would’ve hurt a lesser man… (or at least, he did not think so, not when it concerned his very best friend), what remained was the ghost of something unsaid — or rather, Jesús pride.
One of the last times they had seen one another (before Amira, before Tarragona and the excavation of Tarraco), Jesús had been painfully close to spilling over his top — swollen and uncomfortable he had wanted Zelda as if he had never experienced desire in another person, as if without a certain release he would burst and shatter into nothing. Of course, nothing had come of it, for before either of them could have relented to that taut string of ‘would theys’, Zelda had left and he had buried his attraction as one did a lit match into the sand.
He had left Farah in the hands of a nanny, who was still hired despite her laps in professionalism that had allowed Farah to read manuscripts meant for older students and the questionable lessons she had imparted if only because Jesús could not say no to those he had come to consider close to his familial nature. Still, he left her in capable hands as he pushed back his hair that had long since grown a little too long and deserved a trim to keep within the boundaries deemed suitable to a University Professor, before he finally took to the street.
If by fate or the turn of fortuna’s wheel, it so happened that his rented abode lay not far from Zelda’s own front door, merely (he assumed) because they both worked in similar circles: though it was to be said that she was a curator of her own right and intellect rather than a teacher forced to the profession in order to facilitate a true passion. Nonetheless, he walked the roads he had long since come to know and understand, for after nearly ten years he had cast his shadow along such paths, skipping over small dips and heights that yearned to trip an unsuspecting passenger — what harm could one visit do to such a man?
Absently he thought of something to offer her, as if he were set to go on some grand pilgrimage in order to lay an offering at an altar. But mostly, Jesús thought only of what or how to say things. As such he forgot to linger over the very idea of presenting a bunch of seasonal flowers (of which were vastly sparse and difficult to find due to the month they found themselves in) or something more casual like a bottle of wine he been had sent from Tarragona by a student who worked for him on the ground whilst he was cast the four walls of his office.
By the time he found himself beside the very door he had shunned from the first acknowledgement of its existence, Jesús was empty handed. Smoothing his vest, he made one last attempt to push his hair into submission before rasping his knuckles against her door, staring at the presented wood as one did in a state of nervous distress. He owed this to her, to his sense of self and mostly to his daughter who had always admired the curator whenever she was allowed to visit the Museum in its complete glory. Hesitantly, he lowered his gaze for a moment if only to collect the nerves that had caused his outburst at the dinner, his tongue running across his lower lip before he took one single breath, raising his hand to knock once more.
word count: 718
