bubbles.
More people had come to the door, and Adam watched them move through as Denver checked their IDs, occasionally greeting someone or making some quick comment of recognition. Adam scanned each new arrival, weighing and assessing them by looks and manner. This was the local bar, not the college bar, which he’d already known, but it was interesting to see how the locals parsed themselves out. It was soothing, categorizing people, like sorting his moths. This one is a bear, big and burly, but has a heart of gold. Not much education, but he doesn’t seem to need it. This man is overeducated, using words as weapons to fend off others. This man is a student, and he’s with a pack of students. Undergraduates, one of whom Adam thought he’d seen in the biology building. The students found safety in numbers, but of course that came with conformity, unity. Adam pegged the tall, blond one as the leader, though from the look of the pink-haired one behind him, his territory was in question.
“People watching?” This came from Denver as he reestablished himself on his chair. “This is a good spot for that. Jase and I place bets on who’s going to go home with who.” Denver’s eyes slid to Adam. “Or whom, or whatever. Sorry. Not used to flirting with a graduate student.”
Adam couldn’t decide where to bloom first. Denver was trying to impress him? Flirting? There was flirting happening here? He clutched his La Croix happily. “I’m an entomologist, not a grammarian. I always mess that up anyway. That and the ‘you and I’ when it should be ‘you and me.’ Moths don’t use grammar, thankfully.”
Denver’s seizing on the topic was almost visible. His body even turned. “That’s what you study, huh? Moths?”
“Yeah. Hawk moths are my focus, but I’m obsessed with the entire family of Sphingidae.”
“Well, tell me about them,” Denver urged.
Adam gave him a long look. “You don’t want to hear about hawk moths.”
Denver eased deeper into his stool. His expression shifted, subtly, but whatever it was made the hair on the back of Adam’s neck dance. “Tell me,” Denver said, his voice sliding into a soft drawl, laced with a thin lash of command, “everything you know about hawk moths.”
Adam blinked, confused, uncertain. No , he wanted to argue. You’re making fun, or you will . No one wanted to hear about moths, for fuck’s sake.
Except he couldn’t speak, not those words, because That Look was back. He recognized it from the laundromat. It was the same look that had made Adam feel perfectly fine about letting his pants hang at his knees while he got felt up and then fucked in the ass in front of anybody who came into the room. It was the look that had smoldered in the back of his brain as he’d gotten ready to come tonight. It was the look that had convinced him to overcome everything that told him this was a bad idea, too risky. Now it was back.
Demanding he talk about moths.
So he did.
He started hesitantly, but all Denver did was listen. He was actually listening too, because his face would change as he digested facts, and sometimes he asked questions. Especially about the hummingbird hawk moth.
“So you mean I might have seen one of these things, thought they were a bird, but they’re a moth?”
Adam nodded, trying not to be too eager, but it was hard. “I wish I had a smartphone so I could show you a picture. I mean, they don’t actually look the same holding still, but when they hover, oh yeah.”
“So they’re big?” Denver asked.
Adam considered this. “Well—yes, for a moth, but hummingbirds aren’t big, either. Plus people are always viewing at a distance. It’s easy to mistake them. It’s this movement, see, that makes them so special. They can swing, and not many can do that. Only three nectar feeders have developed this: hummingbirds, some bats, and the hummingbird moth.”
“Is that what you study? Their movement?”
“Well, in a roundabout way.
More people had come to the door, and Adam watched them move through as Denver checked their IDs, occasionally greeting someone or making some quick comment of recognition. Adam scanned each new arrival, weighing and assessing them by looks and manner. This was the local bar, not the college bar, which he’d already known, but it was interesting to see how the locals parsed themselves out. It was soothing, categorizing people, like sorting his moths. This one is a bear, big and burly, but has a heart of gold. Not much education, but he doesn’t seem to need it. This man is overeducated, using words as weapons to fend off others. This man is a student, and he’s with a pack of students. Undergraduates, one of whom Adam thought he’d seen in the biology building. The students found safety in numbers, but of course that came with conformity, unity. Adam pegged the tall, blond one as the leader, though from the look of the pink-haired one behind him, his territory was in question.
“People watching?” This came from Denver as he reestablished himself on his chair. “This is a good spot for that. Jase and I place bets on who’s going to go home with who.” Denver’s eyes slid to Adam. “Or whom, or whatever. Sorry. Not used to flirting with a graduate student.”
Adam couldn’t decide where to bloom first. Denver was trying to impress him? Flirting? There was flirting happening here? He clutched his La Croix happily. “I’m an entomologist, not a grammarian. I always mess that up anyway. That and the ‘you and I’ when it should be ‘you and me.’ Moths don’t use grammar, thankfully.”
Denver’s seizing on the topic was almost visible. His body even turned. “That’s what you study, huh? Moths?”
“Yeah. Hawk moths are my focus, but I’m obsessed with the entire family of Sphingidae.”
“Well, tell me about them,” Denver urged.
Adam gave him a long look. “You don’t want to hear about hawk moths.”
Denver eased deeper into his stool. His expression shifted, subtly, but whatever it was made the hair on the back of Adam’s neck dance. “Tell me,” Denver said, his voice sliding into a soft drawl, laced with a thin lash of command, “everything you know about hawk moths.”
Adam blinked, confused, uncertain. No , he wanted to argue. You’re making fun, or you will . No one wanted to hear about moths, for fuck’s sake.
Except he couldn’t speak, not those words, because That Look was back. He recognized it from the laundromat. It was the same look that had made Adam feel perfectly fine about letting his pants hang at his knees while he got felt up and then fucked in the ass in front of anybody who came into the room. It was the look that had smoldered in the back of his brain as he’d gotten ready to come tonight. It was the look that had convinced him to overcome everything that told him this was a bad idea, too risky. Now it was back.
Demanding he talk about moths.
So he did.
He started hesitantly, but all Denver did was listen. He was actually listening too, because his face would change as he digested facts, and sometimes he asked questions. Especially about the hummingbird hawk moth.
“So you mean I might have seen one of these things, thought they were a bird, but they’re a moth?”
Adam nodded, trying not to be too eager, but it was hard. “I wish I had a smartphone so I could show you a picture. I mean, they don’t actually look the same holding still, but when they hover, oh yeah.”
“So they’re big?” Denver asked.
Adam considered this. “Well—yes, for a moth, but hummingbirds aren’t big, either. Plus people are always viewing at a distance. It’s easy to mistake them. It’s this movement, see, that makes them so special. They can swing, and not many can do that. Only three nectar feeders have developed this: hummingbirds, some bats, and the hummingbird moth.”
“Is that what you study? Their movement?”
“Well, in a roundabout way.
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