“Hey, wanna come out for a drink? So-and-so and I are just heading out from work, we could meet you . . . ” Sounds of doors closing and people talking, some street noise on the other side.

“Hey! Uh . . . thanks, but I have something I uh . . . have to do here.” Pouring a cup of tea and rifling through the silverware drawer for a tea spoon.

“Studying? You have to quit that--have you even stopped to eat?” Car horns, people laughing, someone cursing loudly.

“No, not studying, just . . . busy. Sorry. Catch you later, though! Have fun!” Locking the door, turning on the reading lamp.

“But . . . okay. Don’t study! Bye!” Voice sounding a bit confused but probably thinking an explanation will be forthcoming at our next meeting.

Conversations like that have gone through several incarnations in my life, usually at the exact moment I have snuggled up with a cup of tea and a really excellent book, having showered and put on my pyjamas early for the occasion.

Most of the time I get accused of being sick (rather a good excuse for me since it is so annoyingly valid), being unsociable, too studious, or just plain shy. Once I got accused of being on a secret rendezvous, which amused me greatly. 

Once upon a time there was a corner office in a large university building, full of offices that belonged to the humanities faculty. Many European and More Confusing language departments had offices there, as well as Art and History, and a number of auditoriums on the lower floors which were full of undergraduates who never seemed to chew gum but always left it behind them.

Near the top floor, in a corner office at the end of a warren of corridors there is an explosion of books and a computer and a man with glasses. The man is very shrewd about human nature and very kind to everybody, two qualities that usually don’t go together.

“Come in,” he said when I knocked. I opened the door and mumbled carefully past the books in the entranceway to find the office already occupied by another student whom I knew. I apologised for interrupting and explained that I was only there to return my graded essay. I manoeuvred around a stack of books to sign a form saying I’d seen my grade and by the time I was done my classmate, too, was about to go.

On the way out, but not visible on the way in, is a row of postcards of sculpted faces from cathedrals in Germany. The only one with any real character is exactly where it would catch the eye the most; a smirking little fellow with a crown, looking straight at the viewer.

“Ha, ha. What a cheeky little fellow! I like him the best,” said my classmate as it caught her eye. Our lecturer rose from his chair to see us out of the office. “I always thought he was a bit creepy,” I said as I readjusted my shoulder strap, giving the smirker my best librarian-style glare. My classmate was out of the office, texting on her cell phone, and probably didn’t hear.

The professor looked the postcard and gave me a funny smile, pointing to the caption, which was in German with a tiny line of English translation underneath: “The Prince of this World”. 

Summer in Italy is an interesting phenomenon. There are aphids in our luscious roses and the landlord just sprayed deadly pesticide on the hazelnut orchard outside our house. Our neighbours have begun to use their grill a lot, which smells lovely, and the next neighbour over has a dog which recently gave birth to eight sweet little puppies. We leave our doors and windows open during the day and the feel of marble under my feet is pleasant, now.

Well, it’s been up and down since I last wrote. I’m not doing well, and I have more bad days than good ones, but apparently I put up a good front (it does take a lot of practice) since someone who came by to see me at work said I looked as if I was enjoying myself. Could there have been a more satisfying or damaging remark said to me this year? I don’t know.

Anyway, perhaps as the summer wears on I will be able to clear up some things that are making my life miserable right now. For one thing, I’ll have to drink a lot more iced tea . . . 

The office is quiet, this week, and a little chilly--there’s no heat and no air conditioning, so I’m dependent upon my clever layering techniques to keep myself looking professional without that which would make me very happy: a balaclava. I imagine a chic balaclava is difficult to find, much less one that is suitable for cubicle-wear.

Anyway, I’ve decided that I’m only ever wearing outfits with skirts when I go outside in Italy: the last three times I’ve been to the caffe’ down the hall from this office I’ve been treated very politely, given all the twists, curls, and sprinkled chocolate powder on my cappuccino, and inadvertently sent to the front of the line of corporate business suits to get my office’s drinks on a cute little tray. Both baristas smile and nod at me when I enter the caffe’. It is a little disconcerting, but I guess the feminine skirt has its advantages in a world of suits and ties. I don’t feel guilty at all, no . . .

There ought to be something else to say about my work as it stands now, but really it is a very quiet existence, and weary come 2 o’clock in the afternoon. The last two hours seem to last forever until I lock up and run for the bus; the air outside always seems blue and thick about that time, and waiting for the bus feels like being suspended in water.

My house smells like fresh bread and April rain. Time for sleep.