TALL LEAN LONG-BONED Gregory with a red headband around his forehead; Gregory in a white T-shirt and shorts and runner’s shoes, without socks, looking young and antic as any of his students. Or nearly. (For Gregory was nearly thirty now, two years older than Marya.) His legs were thin but strong, tight with muscle; his thighs flat and hard. Marya admired the curve of his long narrow back as he hunched over the racing bike’s handlebars, she admired the contrast between the sporty red headband and his fine white-blond hair. He had fastened amber plastic lenses over his glasses, had secured his glasses in place with a strip of black elastic, gave every impression of being a serious rider with a serious destination. He and Marya had gone out bicycling a few times on winding country roads in the area but the rides had been easy, companionable, not at all competitive; they’d mostly ridden abreast, talking. Gregory had never been able to talk her into accompanying him on a long trip before—she hadn’t the time, she said, she wasn’t really that confident a bicyclist, and in any case didn’t your mind simply drift onto other things, to the usual worries and problems, on long monotonous rides?

The sport isn’t monotonous, Gregory said. There are only monotonous-minded people.

Marya laughed, chastened. She quite liked Gregory when he put her in her place, deflated her pretensions. She was less comfortable with his mercurial moods—his frequent self-reproach, his melancholy, his outbursts of sentiment, piety, possessiveness. (A year ago he suggested suddenly that they move Marya’s things into his apartment, that they “experiment along those lines” for six weeks or so. Marya hadn’t been inclined to take the proposal seriously.)

Bicycling, Marya felt herself propelled by an indefinable energy—now anxiety, now elation, now a muscular sort of rage, concentrated in her legs and thighs. Was she angry? But at whom? She felt good, despite her circumstances. She felt strong. It was her fantasy that even if she were promoted, awarded tenure, even if everything worked out well . . . she would only teach for another year or two; then resign; move to New York City; begin another sort of life. More spacious, more idiosyncratic. It was a fantasy she suspected might be commonplace, among people in her situation.

As for Gregory—he disliked speculation, the fabrication of “plans” that were hardly more than wishes in disguise.

As for Gregory—he kept himself to himself, as the old expression went.

So long as they were bicycling along residential streets Marya had no trouble keeping pace with him. It was a sunny autumn day, just perceptibly chilly, bracing. She did feel good, invigorated. But once they were in the open country Marya began to fall behind by degrees. “Gregory, wait,” she called out, laughing, trying to laugh, and if he heard her he obligingly slackened his pace; if not, he pedaled on ahead for some minutes before he became aware of outdistancing her.