(
Note to Readers:
This is an entry in the
Summer Lovin' Story Contest 2023
. All characters are over 18 years old. The sex is consensual, and I doubt that it would trigger anyone. Enjoy!)
***
High summer had arrived, and the air conditioning in Alfred's apartment struggled to keep the place below 85 Fahrenheit. Days ago, he had tried to think of that as 29 Celsius, but that didn't make him feel less besieged by the heat and humidity. As he worked to organize his research for the academic paper he had to submit in four days, Alfred was distracted by more than the sweat starting to bead at his hairline. Most of the year, what he chose to refer to as 'unfocused sexual desire' was below the threshold of disturbing him.
Not so, in summer.
He shifted in his chair, trying to avert the discomfort of what he called 'genital expansion.' Fleeting images of attractive women bloomed in his brain.
His glasses started to slide downward. He knuckled the nosepiece up to the bridge, where it wouldn't stay for long. Demanding that he focus on his work and exercise his intellect, Alfred examined the image in a rectangle on his laptop screen. It was a blurry block of text, of the lyrics of the ancient song
Sumer Is Icumen In
. He had found this document in an archive in Canada. It had gone unnoticed since its delivery there from England, with other secular song sheets, in the late 18th century. Alfred was proud of having unearthed it, and of adding it to the materials which (he believed) supported his conclusions on the transition from Middle English, in which the song was composed in the 13th century, to Modern English, as shown in later transcriptions. The song had been written down, and later printed, in so many different years, that Alfred found that the song showed a chronology in the changes of spelling and usage, as the early language transformed into the current one.
It was difficult for him to enjoy his pride, however, because this seemed to increase his genital expansion.
He typed two paragraphs of Academese, adding three footnotes and linking them to the main text. He did this, despite having to rise slightly from his chair.
His phone chimed.
Alfred almost lost his grip on the phone as he lifted it from a pants pocket. Partly obscured by his thumb on the screen was the name "W. Granville." A storm of disconnected thoughts whizzed through his brain: His shyness//The obligation of phone talk//His acquaintance with a woman//A colleague doing entirely different work from the same basic material//Her brown hair which always seemed askew in different ways//His annoyance at the interruption.
In the time it took him to draw breath, however, Alfred regained his higher faculties, and his social skills, such as they were.
"Hello Willa."
"Yes Alfred thanks for picking up," came Willa's voice, sounding rushed. "Is the Rhode Island packet at your place?"
Alfred scowled. "Yes."
"Are you working with it right now?"
"Give me a moment," he said, hoping he didn't sound peevish. He was fairly certain that the papers to the left of his laptop, in their clear plastic liners, did not include what Willa sought. Yet he still put on clean white gloves and carefully lifted the papers, one at a time, and scanned them through a magnifying glass. He then set down the magnifier and picked up the phone. "Not at present. It's boxed up."
"May I come over and check some things? I'll be done in an hour."
Alfred stifled a sigh. Three Departments at Yale--Linguistics, English History, and American History--had agreed to support the researches of Dr. Ellicott and Dr. Granville. Each scholar had found, and contributed to Yale, original materials related to
Sumer Is Icumen In
. Matters were confused further, because the School of Music got involved. As part of the agreement among all parties, the researchers were allowed to remove some of these materials temporarily from the Yale archive, to work with them from home. A pandemic-era policy was still in effect. Alfred believed that the real reason was to deny him and Willa the use of private offices on campus.
Either Alfred or Willa could take materials home. Alfred, however, was the only occupant of his apartment, while Willa had two roommates. They agreed, and Yale approved, that Alfred's apartment would be the only off-campus location for centuries-old original documents, to be studied when photostats, PDFs, and other reproductions wouldn't suffice.
This made Alfred's life much easier. Except when he had to open his living space to another human.
"Very well," said Alfred, at once regretting his use of snooty formality. "Any time today." Then, as a peace offering, "Shall I make coffee?"
"I'll bring, thanks." The call ended.
He was miffed at her brusqueness. Then, in her defense, he recalled that she was familiar with his coffee.
***
When Alfred opened the door, Willa breezed in without making eye contact, and said, "Just need to pin down the difference between the letter from England and the notes by the planners for the conservatory." Her covered flask of coffee was in one hand, and her other hand dug into her shoulder-strapped purse for her own white gloves. Like Alfred, Willa lived on the outskirts of New Haven, and therefore of Yale, and therefore of Academia.
When Willa was present, she and Alfred stayed apart. They respected each other's space, even in this tiny one-bedroom. He tolerated this departure from his comfort zone (which he defined as 'alone'). But now it was summer, and Alfred found himself...responding...to Willa's presence, in a way he didn't want to admit.
Willa went directly to the stack of boxes on the coffee table and gathered one. She took it to the kitchenette, and set herself up on the small table. She was in lecture mode. "Roger Williams surely had his flaws, but he was sincere about hoping to build a community less oppressive than the one in Massachusetts Bay Colony. The people who came to Rhode Island clearly agreed. In 1703, this group actually welcomed music that was entirely secular."
Alfred found himself staring at her. She appeared as she almost always did, in a loose t-shirt and jeans, with a tattoo on each forearm (a circular, 'tail-eating' serpent, and an 'impossible' Escher drawing). Her light brown hair, in what may have once been a shag cut, spread in various directions. Her plain face was adorned only with sunscreen.
Alfred controlled his breathing. He was unable to do that to his heartbeat.
"Um, I'll leave you to it," he said, and retreated to his office space in the bedroom.
Five minutes later, stuck in mid-paragraph, Alfred knew that he'd accomplish nothing more while Willa was here. Not her fault. His. As it had been since his adolescence.
The song, of which he had heard countless performances, didn't help.
Sumer Is Icumen In
was written in both Latin, with religious content, and also in the English of the time, as a joyous, secular paean to the triumphant return of raucous life, after the quiet agony of winter.
Merye sing cuccu, cuccu, cuccu!
Merry meant the same thing now as it had in the earlier spelling: The state of enjoying pleasure, in body as well as spirit.
Alfred's penis thickened.
Several slow breaths stalled that process.
Even at his most addled, Alfred would never make an unwanted advance to anyone. He and Willa had shared mutual respect ever since their first online contacts showed how their work across different disciplines could benefit them both. This continued after they met in person, and after their pitches to Yale encouraged them to move to New Haven, where the high visibility of their scholarship would likely gain them good faculty positions at reputable colleges.
Alfred and Willa seemed to have little in common personally. Even a cordial professional relationship with a woman was unique for Alfred.
Alfred hoped, however, that today's phase of the relationship would end as soon as possible.
Hesitantly, he stepped into the kitchen, hoping that Willa was nearly finished. "How's it going?"
Willa didn't look up from the document she studied. "Maybe ten more minutes."
"I, um, appreciate that you're trying to keep it quick."
"More than that," she said with an edge in her voice. "I've had to ditch another boyfriend. The anger makes me rush things."
He said nothing. His brain spun another spate of disconnected thoughts://Don't make her angrier//A woman in my apartment//She's unattached now//Twenty-six years old, like me//My work stalled//She's unhappy//Seems to break up often//I need to be alone//I need her to stay.
He realized that these thoughts were, in fact, connected.
