I fetch my bike out of the bike room in the basement garage and wave at my neighbor as she drives out. I’m still smiling because Barbara, my hot wife, woke up when I did and was in a playful mood. It was one of those mornings when we brush our teeth and jump right back in sack. She is perfect for me.

We sold the house and bought a unit in this condo when I left the magazine. Mowing the lawn and raking the leaves got old. Well, so did I. Anyway, I would rather spend my free time cycling.

I ride slow, not wanting to break a sweat on my way to work. It’s a nice ride over well kept, tree lined suburban roads. There is no legal parking along the side of the road, so it is a very safe route. I enjoy the days I ride very much.

Arriving, I bring my bike upstairs to my office. It weighs, like, nothing, made mostly of carbon fiber. It may deserve a much younger, faster rider, but no one deserves it more than I do. At seven thirty I encounter no one in the faculty men’s room as I change into the work clothes I left in the office for the purpose – it’s great to be prepared. I look in the mirror as I button my shirt. I don’t look too bad for an old man, I think, and since I don’t care what anyone else thinks – except maybe my hot wife – mine is pretty much the only opinion that matters.

By seven forty-five I am at my desk, looking over the lessons for today, water for coffee coming to a boil on the hotplate on the credenza. Students begin to appear outside my window, walking from the dorm to their early classes. I notice one with blonde hair and large breasts, admiring for a fraction of a second before I return to my own business. I open my email. Laughing at myself, the little pang I feel because there is no email from Bobbie this morning, I think, “Busy girl,” the thought passing through my mind like a zephyr, elusive and swift. She and Frank are camping this week. I’ll hear from her sometime after she’s back and settled.

There is a knock at my door. The door opens, revealing a head of curly, dark hair shot with gray.

“Good morning!” says Marilyn, another professor in the English department.

“Good morning, Marilyn!” I reply.

“Department meeting at two,” she says, stepping in. She’s wearing a pinstripe power pantsuit. She looks cute in it, I judge.

“I know it,” I say, smiling.

“Are you going?”

“Of course I’m going,” I say. “Why would I not?”

“I’m not,” she says.

“You’re not? Why not?”

“Because Humboldt is running it,” she says.

I laugh. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.”

I pour hers into the clean cup and mine into the other one.

“Humboldt’s not so bad,” I say, handing her her coffee. She smells great. I love the scent she wears.

“He’s arrogant,” she replies.

“You don’t find that entertaining?”

“Please.”

I laugh again. “He’s just trying to comfort himself.”

“Comfort himself?”

“He’s just puffing himself up to compensate for something that he feels is missing from his life,” I reply. “Such a man is to be pitied, not feared or disliked. It’s a defense. He wants to create the illusion of control. I get along with him well enough.”

“Well, I can’t stand the man,” she says.

“Sure you can,” I say. “You just have to train yourself not to take offense.”

“Well, how the hell do I do that?”

“Very simple,” I say. “Your offense at his arrogance is based on your supposition that he is expressing an opinion about you by his attitude. I suggest that instead, you adopt my philosophy that you can never, ever, ever really know what someone thinks. First, you cannot see directly into someone’s head. Second, even if they tell you, either they may not be capable of adequately expressing their thoughts, words themselves may not be adequate, or you may not be capable of adequately understanding their thoughts, not through any shortcoming on your part, but simply because we are talking about raw thoughts before they are crammed into the inadequate vehicle of language. Do you follow me so far?”

“Yes, I get it,” she replies, sardonically. “I thought you said it was simple.”

“No, it is,” I insist. “It is, simply stated, we can never fully understand what anyone else is thinking. Because we can never fully understand what people are thinking, worrying about what they think is a waste of time.”

“But I don’t worry about what Humboldt thinks,” she says, a little irritably.

“If you say so,” I say, gently. “But Marilyn, consider: if you didn’t care what Humboldt thought, why would anything he say matter to you? Where is your emotional investment? What I suggest is, should you end up trapped in a room with him, just tell yourself, ‘I don’t care what he says.’ Make yourself believe it. Then he will not bother you anymore.”

“I just feel that life is too short to waste on people like him,” she says.

“Perhaps,” I say, although I do not agree at all. “But everyone, I think, has something to offer. Think about it, will you?”

“Maybe,” she says, reluctantly.

“So what do you and Bob have planned for the weekend?” I ask, smiling.

“We are going apple picking with our daughter who is going to be home from school,” she replies, smiling.

“Excellent,” I say.

We trade a little small talk for a while. She leans against the bookcase, crossing her ankles the way women do. We talk about a student, Ty Andersen, who wrote a very daring and risqué poem for a minute or two, and then she begins to move toward the door.

“Well, I guess I won’t see you at the staff meeting,” I say.

“No, no, I think maybe I’ll go,” she says.

I smile. “Good,” I say.

I admire the way her pants fit as she goes. After all, there is no reason not to enjoy the pleasant sights that chance, if chance you call it, brings your way.

Out my window, I see throngs of students crisscrossing the quad. I have class in an hour. I only teach three days a week. That’s really all the work I want at seventy-five years old. Resuming my seat at the desk, I pick up a poem by Ty Andersen. His work is really compelling, but he can be lazy. What should I expect from a nineteen-year-old? But I’ll find a way to light a fire under him. Thinking about how I will motivate him, I smile.