I made my way back to my office and sat down at my desk, lost in thought, when something moving outside the window caught my eye. A figure was bobbing along the path that ran next to the building—a jogger, I realized, a woman. And after a few aimless moments of watching her, I saw that the jogger was Kirstie.

The sky behind her was just beginning to lighten, and a faded orange light was showing through. She was wearing a dark windbreaker over her elastic pants, and fluorescent sneakers, her heels cutting cleanly through the air behind her as she made her way past the rows of empty parking spaces, out toward the center of campus. She did not appear to be moving very quickly, but her stride was regular and soothing to watch. The morning was crisp and cold, and I could see my breath on the windowpane in small white blooms.

How long I stayed like that I can’t recall—a strange, slack feeling had spread throughout my limbs—but it must have been until I became aware that the telephone on my desk was ringing, and I started back from the window as if I had been caught in a compromising pose.

“Hello?” I said, regretting that I hadn’t paused to let my breath grow more even.

It was a colleague of mine, calling to see if I was available for dinner. He was sorry for the late notice, he explained, but he was in charge of putting together a dinner party for a guest lecturer and was in need of one more person. Was I available?

Was I available? I thought. I hesitated a moment. Had this phone call really been intended for me? But, I thought, was it really necessary to always be so self-sabotaging? Was there any real reason I could not graciously accept an invitation to dinner?

Still, I hesitated. I could say, convincingly enough, that I would need to check, and I could open up my datebook and pretend that the snowy expanse inside was in fact filled with engagements. But, in the end, what would be the point of that? Yes, I said, I could make it; I would meet them at the restaurant at seven. I replaced the phone in its cradle and turned toward the window. Kirstie was gone, and the gray in the sky had burned off to reveal an equivocal blue.

And why, I asked myself, did I need to fret so about an invitation to dinner? I was cordial with many members of the department, more than I could count. And yet I could not help but feel a certain shameful pleasure. I felt—the thought is distasteful to me now—flattered by the invitation.