End scene.

I could write about the Dean’s administrative assistant whose desk is closest to mine, around the corner. I could write about how she talks about being mixed in the land of the white; her tall, dark husband who stops by occasionally with his deep voice and easy humor; her kids; her facebook posts that make me laugh; her decision to leave this job after a few short months.

I could talk about the woman I work with in the Registrar’s office who runs and knits and isn’t afraid to complain or naysay. I could write about her tortoise shell glasses or the time we went for a bagel or the presentation we gave yesterday at a conference in downtown GB.

I could write about any of my students. The one who sends short, rude emails like she is the only student who has ever not understood something; the one who I see everywhere on campus; the one who is borderline always complaining to me in a passive aggressive way but doesn’t give any concrete suggestions to improve anything. The one who asked me to dinner; the one who brings me Coca-Colas; the one who asked me advice about graduate school; the ones I disappoint on a weekly basis.

I could write about the wasp that was buzzing around the office today; the man who climbed through the window to fix the roof; the dead fly in my windowsill; the change in my mood from the sunny morning to the dull gray wintery afternoon. How I’m dying to go to the caf to fill 3 plates and smile politely and make little conversation. None of it seems interesting to me. So I won’t write about it.


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