Toward the end of her career with us she was impatient to finish. I guess this is the way of the world: babies don’t want to take a bath, children don’t want to go to bed, and students want to leave the university. Those of us who are older, of course, view a good bath and a good night’s sleep as two sublime pleasures that we wish we could prolong; and we would pay a lot of money to be able to return, even for a short while, to our youthful college days. But every generation I guess has to learn anew that the oven is hot. Anyway, one day in class Jennifer told me that she was tired of the university and wanted to start her life in the real world. I told her then as a lesson, and I will tell her now as a wish: everything is a university. For those who see clearly, everything is a university.

A soft, nodding hum rises from the crowd. They are in his hands. The psychologist looks around the room. A pleasant warm sensation settles in his body. In the sea of ties he recognizes suddenly Nathan’s erect serious figure. He raises his glass in the boy’s direction. Nathan raises his soda can, and a half smile flickers on his face. The psychologist turns to Jennifer. And one more thing, if I may, he says quietly. You always had the ability to listen to your teachers; and for a veteran teacher, or old and half dead in student parlance, any encounter with a student who listens is experienced as a miracle to be enjoyed and not examined too closely, lest it vanish like a mirage. But—he leans toward her; she shines like a white frozen torch—during this last semester I have discovered another more important talent in you: the ability to listen to yourself. There, in my opinion, is where the real learning begins. Congratulations, Jennifer, and thank you all.

Applause; whistles sound from the corner. Eric is waving at him enthusiastically, the pink-haired girl bouncing at his side. The psychologist steps off the stage, works his way to Jennifer, hugs her carefully so as not to upset her attire and makeup, and kisses her on the cheek. The white teeth girls exult around them and squeak with delight. Eric shows up behind them, smiling broadly, the pink-haired girl on his arm.

Good speech, Professor, Eric says. You definitely got it.

I’m not sure what I got, but thanks for reminding me of the wedding.

Now we dance, Professor, Eric announces. He raises his beer bottle in the air. The pink-haired girl squeals and pulls him onto the dance floor. The white teeth girls rush to join them.

The psychologist nods: You, you dance; my time has come and gone. He follows them with his eyes until they disappear in the throbbing, bouncing crowd.