Before his divorce, he’d never been more than a casual drinker; maybe once a week, he’d ended his evening with a glass of red wine from the cabinet in his study. But in the years since, he’d rediscovered an affinity for the grape—which had slowly evolved into a full-blown affair. And in recent years, like his ex-wife, he’d begun to side-step beyond his monogamous nature: wine had given way to vodka, then gin. Even tequila, in a pinch. Usually, even on an off night, he’d find his way back to his town house before anything eventful happened. Lost cell phones aside, there was only so much trouble a professor of history could get into, in the social world he lived within.

But last night was different. Even before he’d met her, sometime after 2:00 a.m., he could recall—last night had felt different. Even before the conference had ended, he’d begun celebrating—starting with a glass of champagne in the speaker’s green room at the convention hall, then continuing on at the tavern after-party.

Sitting up in his bed, he heard a noise from downstairs: high heels against the imported slate tiles that covered most of his kitchen. The tiles had been his ex-wife’s choice. She’d had expensive tastes in everything from home decor to her choice of divorce lawyer. On a tenured professor’s salary, Charles had been able to pay off the tiles, but he’d be paying for the divorce lawyer for years to come.

The tiles, for their part, now seemed worth the cost, just for the click of those high heels against the slate. Charles quickly slipped out from under the comforter and crossed his bedroom to the hook by his closet, where he kept his bathrobe. The bedroom was bright for 5:30 a.m.—either she’d opened the shades that covered the single window overlooking quiet, tree-lined Brattle Street before he woke up, or they’d left the shades open the night before. Charles seriously hoped it was the former; his neighbors were almost entirely professors like him, and at least three houses had a good view of his bedroom. He’d have a hard time walking into the faculty dining hall if he thought any of his stiff, overeducated neighbors had witnessed even a portion of last night’s activities.

He made sure the bathrobe was tied tight, then exited the bedroom. The stairs leading down to the first floor were cherrywood and polished so smooth he could see his reflection in the banister. His ex-wife had always made fun of his proclivity for cleanliness and order; to be sure, he knew in most things he was just as stiff—and certainly as overeducated—as his neighbors. Harvard professors were a breed, and especially those in the history department. Last night wasn’t just a giant leap for Charles, but a Neil Armstrong moment for his entire profession.