Reading and running, that’s my life here in the assembly-line quaint Connecticut town that is now my home. I chose it because it is not far from Chelsea and it seemed as good as anywhere else. It is a working-to middle-class community with a fairly sizable Negro population. I did not realize how sheltered I had become living for so long on campus. It’s quite shocking, really, American life at the end of the century. The ridiculous clothes people wear and the lack of decorum and the music that is like an assault out of every doorway. I think often of the quiet rigor of my former life. I did not even fully appreciate how much it costs to rent an apartment on the open market. I had saved over the years—my needs were few when I was at Chelsea—and Fox arranged for me to receive my full pension, so I manage. For a long time, I did not know what to do with myself. Without the school schedule to structure my days, I found that I spent hours, days, in a ceaseless replay of my tenure at the school, particularly the final events of my career there. For a while, my sorrow made it difficult even to read, though I came back to that. Running is what kept me sane—the smooth motion of my legs and the chance to stop thinking, if only briefly.

But of course, one cannot go on like that indefinitely I began volunteering at the local library. Mrs. Hamilton, the head librarian, does not ask a great many questions and seems very glad of my help. I find the work restful, the quiet repetitiveness of shelving and shelving again. Perhaps I will work at the desk, answering questions at some point, but I have avoided it thus far. I am not ready to assume the mantle of authority anew. Not yet. I’ve begun writing for journals about the classical world as well. And I’ve begun running competitively. I do well in the senior divisions. I relish the brush and bump of bodies, the sounds and sights of sweat and athleticism. The men I run with, the women I work with at the library, they don’t know what I’ve done. They see only my flesh and bone; a body moving through space. I prefer it that way.

Sometimes my running route leads me through the center of town. I usually loop quickly through before returning to the quieter environs of my street and my apartment. But this Saturday, as I prepared to turn and make my way back home, a familiar voice called my name.

“Jerome!” It was Jana. I thought that I would never see her again. I thought that that would be best. For even now, nearly a year after my departure, seeing her cut at me like a knife. For her to see me like this—surprised, sweaty, wearing a T-shirt that is a relic of my trip to the Motown museum and faded sweatpants—my first impulse was simply to keep running and pretend that I had not heard her. But she called again, and I stopped and crossed the street.