She is a professor of German literature,
though her dissertation was on early-twentieth-century French philosophers.
She recognizes how her computer would make her more efficient,
but she prefers a notebook and a pen.
She detests taking work home with her,
but she loads her students with reading homework and assignments.
She is nostalgic for hippie culture,
wears her hair long,
beaded bracelets on her wrists,
no makeup,
no hair dye,
sparkles of silver mixed with her long strands of black.
But her clothes are contemporary,
fitting snuggly against her lean body and her small breasts,
attracting the longing gazes
of the envious
and the lonely.
She loves children,
but has none,
indeed, has decided never to birth them.
She sees the value of a monogamous relationship,
of the matrimonial vows,
but she, herself, has decided never to marry.
She’ll take a lover from time to time,
sometimes indiscriminately,
man or woman,
but never a student,
nor a colleague,
nor anyone working at the university.
Some of them beg her for the delights of her body,
but she always says no.
Still,
she flirts.
She does not like her mother,
but she cares for her anyway.
She loved her father,
but never went to his funeral.
She is a maximalist by nature,
but on the walls of her condo is a single painting,
of an angel embracing a demon.