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To be fair, I have never been much good at dating. In high
school, I never got asked out; I was too bookish, too freckled,
not curvy enough. In college, I went on a few dates, but I
always ended up talking about medieval history to whatever
bemused sports player had asked me out, and there was never
a follow-up text. I’d thought I might blossom in graduate
school; after all, I’d thought, all of the boys here are just as
nerdy and academic as I am. This has been true. However,
this also has meant that all of the available boys at graduate
school are too wrapped up in their research to even bother
with girls.

I decided, while painstakingly applying eyeliner in the
bathroom this morning, that I was not going to ask Calvin
anything about his research. Unfortunately, I also seem to
have forgotten how to talk about anything else.

After an interminable 10 minutes of awkward one-word
answers to questions and averted eyes, after we have
exchanged the usual pleasantries, I am horrified to hear
myself blurt out, “Have you ever thought about leaving grad
school?”

He looks up at me, blinking. “Sometimes,” he says. “Not
often, but every once in a while. When I was taking comps, I
did. Why? Are you?”

“Yes,” I say.
“Why?” he asks. And before I even realize I am doing it, I
am telling him about my constant nightmares, the weight loss,
the permanent dark circles beneath my eyes, the encroaching
fear that I will never be good enough for this, the way I can’t
seem to wrap my head around the particulars of Latin
grammar, the stack of books sitting unread on my floor for
comps in a couple months.
When I finally manage to cut off the flow, I stare back
down at my coffee, my cheeks burning, the beginnings of tears
welling up just beneath my eyes—not quite to the ducts yet,
but close enough to irritate them and turn the capillaries
bright red. Calvin from the classics department does not seem

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