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staring blankly at the wall; she’s scribbling in a notebook,
cross-referencing a library book every so often. “What would
you say if I told you I was leaving grad school?” I ask lightly.

Her head snaps up from her notes to look at me, my
attempt at a casual tone apparently not convincing enough.
“Are you?”

“No,” I say. “But—well, I’m thinking about it, I guess. I’m
just—I guess I’m just not sure this is really what I want to do.
Lately, it’s been... well... I guess I’m having second thoughts.
I’m not totally sure this is good for me.”

She nods. “I understand.”
“Really?” I say. “But you’re so—have you ever wondered
the same thing?”
“Me? Oh, lord, no,” she says. “I’ve always known what I
wanted to do, and frequently wished I wanted to do
something else. Anything else. But—well, it’s like a kind of a
civil war. You’re fighting yourself, and one side or another is
going to win, and then you’re going to have to commit fully to
it, and start to rebuild yourself. I understand that.”
And okay, Elia has a Civil War analogy for pretty much
everything, but this one—well, it almost makes sense.
“Whatever the outcome,” she adds softly, “whichever side
wins, you are going to have to reconcile, and it’s going to hurt.
It’s too late to stop that now. The aftermath of a civil war is
never pretty. Your Reconstruction will be difficult. Just so you
are forewarned.”
“I know,” I say, and I wonder what I have begun.

⁂

I’m sitting in a coffee shop with Calvin from the classics
department, staring into my caffé americano and wishing I
was anywhere else. This is the first date I have been on in
more than a year, and I have entirely forgotten how to
conduct myself.

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