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Diego flinches, a gesture I only notice because of my proximity. He definitely heard that change in my voice.
“I want to interview actual performers,” I say. “I want to get some personal stories from real people.”
“That … that sounds like a lot of work,” Diego says. His voice is also quieter, but he’s speaking at his desk instead of at me. “You shouldn’t have to travel all the way to New York City for this assignment. Everything you need should be accessible online or on campus.”
“I don’t need to go to New York to see drag,” I say. “There’s plenty of places around here that host drag performances.”
“Oh,” Diego says. “I … didn’t know that.”
We’re talking about the paper, but not really. The words are appropriate enough, but my tone, his shyness, my proximity — they make a farce of this sterile, appropriate teacher-student conference. I dare to lean in a little closer. Diego doesn’t move away. His eyes finally shift toward me instead of continuing to bore holes through his desk.
“That’s right,” I say. “You’re from some small town, huh? I think you mentioned that that night when you stayed at my place.”
The reminder rattles him. His jaw tightens, some little muscle jerking as he apparently clenches his teeth hard. His throat bobs. Diego stares at me with a mixture of desperation and pleading. Some piece of me wants to believe that’s a plea for me to close the distance between us and finally put an end to the charade we’re struggling to maintain, but that might be too bold to hope for. I wish he’d give me some sort of signal, but Diego just sits there and watches me like I’m a snake that might decide to bite him.
“What was it like back home?” I say. “Did you know any other queer people?”
Diego flinches, but it’s a reasonable question. It’s not like straight guys are out here teaching Queer and Trans History. But it’s also the first time I’ve openly acknowledged that he’s queer to his face.
“It was small,” he says. “But yes. I met … a few people.”
There’s something more there, and I’d love to dig it out of him, but he genuinely looks like he might bolt.
Then again, what I say instead isn’t all that much better.
“So you’re not completely inexperienced,” I say. His eyebrows shoot up, and I add, “With the community.”
“I suppose not,” he says carefully.
“That’s good, but I somehow get the impression you should get out more.”
“That’s not really… I mean, I have to worry about my classes and things, so I don’t really…”
I barely resist smiling to myself. His professional veneer is rapidly breaking down, and all I’ve done is stand close and ask a couple questions that aren’t strictly about my research.
“Well, I’m going to find some drag performances to go to as part of my research,” I say, “and I think you should come with me to one.”
His eyebrows shoot up and stay up this time. I rush on before he can freak out too much.
“It’s your field of study as much as mine,” I say. “And you’ve never seen it for yourself. Isn’t half the reason for leaving a small town to get out and see more of the world? I think this is good for both of us.”
“I’m not sure,” Diego dithers.
“It’s just for research,” I say, lower, silkier, infusing every word with added meaning.
“Research,” he repeats quietly.
“Research. Exactly.”
I reach past him for a cup of pens sitting on his desk. I didn’t plan any of this. It’s all just happening. I’m almost watching myself be this bold and brazen from afar. The pen cup is a nice touch, however. It forces me to lean over and past him, to get so close I can smell his aftershave, but in a motion that’s completely innocuous on the surface.
Pen in hand, I find a spare piece of paper on his desk (it might be another essay or his own homework) and scribble out my phone number.
“How about this?” I say, staying closer than necessary. “I’m going to find some performances to check out. If you ever decide you want to see one, text me.”
Diego stares down at the scrawled phone number. He brushes his fingers against it like the ink might burn him.
“For research,” he says. A suggestion, a hope, a question.
