Cambridge Tryst 670 words
Over a chequered table cloth, the straw-wrapped Chianti bottle at his elbow, and a waiter at his side, Stephen explained the most basic principles of quantum physics to his fionce.
‘It is simply a transference of molecules – through the worm hole of a permanent and radical spectrum,’ said Stephen. ‘Why, even any girl can see how in effect we have solved the riddle of space time travel,’ he said to Margaret, his mouth ringed by a spaghetti sauce.
The two young lovers consumed the panacotta, and finally returned home from the Pistachio bistro. They reclined hearthside, ceased their intellectual wrestle, instead gazed desirously to each other’s eyes, spread an entanglement: limbs upon rug, fingers engaged and pullovers lost. When, all at once Stephen recoiled, curled the spindly legs under his bottom. He became animated at the wrists, only writhed alone.
‘Oh Stephen,’ cried Margaret, who had risen and sat more properly upon the sofa, ‘shall I, shall I call the porter?’ she said.
Stephen convulsed, reached into his trouser pocket, withdrew the handkerchief and sneezed.
‘Golly, that parmesan, it caught in my nostril darling, seems to have triggered an allergic…atchoo…’
‘Oh Stephen, I love you,’ she said. ‘Always so spirited, so passionate in your pursuits.’
‘I must record every sniffle.’
He leaned towards his notebook across the Chesterfield table.
‘And I love you, Margaret,’ he said, ‘shall we, shall we play chess again?’
Flame licked the fireside coals, a log crackled, spat, and split.
‘This is such bliss, you room, the rug, the hearth and our ginger beers,’ she said.
Stephen cupped his glass from the underside, raised it towards the swinging bulb, and curious, contemplated the marvels of a liquid gravity.
‘Bubbles rising in a cosmic confluence, an irony of chemistry, atoms rebound, collide and they crash,’ he said, in observation.
‘My chap, are you not, not the cleverest man ever born. Why not crash bodily to the carpet like a Zeus, or take off your socks, darling, hew hew hew,’ said Margaret, and her little finger traced the ridges of her brace.
‘Oh Maggie, your hair is like helix, your eyes burn like Bunsen,’ he said.
Margaret sighed, for her Stephen, was he not always so very predictable in his praise?
‘But can’t you see, I am a passionate woman, Stephen, and I have my desires,’ she giggled with embarrassment at her own brazen exclamation.
‘And the square root of all desire equates to an intellectual illogic,’ he said. ‘Vile beasts rut, scientists must study, check mate, my dear.’ In his triumph he stamped away to brew the cocoa.
Margaret turned towards him as he stood sink-side.
‘You beastly boy, why don’t you just fuck me?’ she squealed, and even as the fire flamed, there remained a cold silence between them. She spoke in a great flourish of emotion, ‘Seems every Friday I just atrophy like Napoleon’s member,’ she said,’sat here in my brassiere. For God’s sake I’ve had enough, pass me my jersey, and my spectacles, where are they?’
‘Well, that’s not like you, Biscuit,’ Stephen replied. ‘Normally we study the planets, your Jupiter and your ehmm, your Pluto breast with its rings.’ Hawking inhaled, ‘Way I see it, well, I suggest you have been hanging with those literature chaps again, eh? The book club? Have you, what was it?
‘Lawrence,’ she said with some defiance…
‘Not the D H,’
‘Yes, every word, a physical yearning, a longing like eternity enshrined, it wraps my soul.’
‘What, and sat aside that George Blake the whole time, I bet?’ Hawking grimaced.
‘No, not him.’
‘Who then: Kim, Anthony, Donald?’
‘It was Turing…and he says I have eyes like a digital comboter, he has my number he says.’
‘But, but Alan is a blasted hemersexual.’
‘Don’t say that word, one day everybody shall have a hemersexual in their heuse, he says and I believe him.’
Then the scientist, the undergraduate, stroked his jaw in a deep reflection.
‘I can’t see that happening,’ he said, ‘only the government has hemersexuals for cracking Nazi codes and the ilk, ehmm,’