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Excerpt from Remy Benoit's Loving

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The building was old in the way of old buildings; brown stoned, ivy covered walls, dark tiled floors that had long ago lost any image of their original pattern; bulletin boards devoid of any but random announcements of an art show or discounted travel abroad.

Heavy wooden student chairs, all right handed, unmarked with graffiti indicating that these students were long past high school.

For him, high school was already ancient history. Undergraduate work that was completed only a few years ago seemed steeped in mud and spiderwebs.

One of those years spent in heat, humidity, filth, and fear.

Six more months, they own me six more months, but only body, won't let 'em have what is left of soul, what is left of soul? but at least they had brought the body Statesí side.

He watched them come in, most of them tired from teaching all day, coaching all afternoon, driving long distances to be here because they had to be here, so they were here. Some of them single, some of the married, most of them, he figured, would rather have been home bouncing a baby on a knee, watching the tube with their feet up, or draining a beer.

"Thank God," thought Jesse, "they are not undergrads bubbling and bouncing about cheerleading, football games, or frat beer busts. First time back with the books I couldn't be dealing with that.

ďAt least they are near my chronological age, if not the age of my soul."

Jesse just sat, real quiet, watching while the room filled up, waiting for the Prof.

Jesse just sat real quiet close to the door, away from the windows.

Not my field, not science, history.

Looking for answers for the why of it.