Twelve

I accepted a teaching position at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio.  Come August, I'll be an Assistant Professor of Political Science.  And I'll be 40.  M has a shot at a lecturer's position in History.  My salary alone will be more than we made together at the mission.  Plus, we've saved some money.  And cost of living is reasonable.  We want an older home.  Some land.  A long driveway and trees.  Though, we may stay in town and walk, since we don't yet have a car.  I guess we'll get one.  Just one. 

I relish the thought of the walks to campus.  The brick-paved streets, the ivy-coated buildings, the bustling students. 

We're still not sure about having a child.  But, we want to be settled into a home and life before we do.  The mission just makes that difficult. 

It has been years since I've taught live students.  I mean, I get calls from my online students, but seeing them in person.  That's been a while. 

This is a life I've always wanted.  Time will tell if that was good instinct.  An Assistant Professor at a good school in a location that is amazing.  If you're not from Kentucky like M and I, maybe being a good distance outside of Cincinnati seems like bad news.  A stepping stone to a "better" college.  But for me, this is the dream. Like the mission.  I knew the work I wanted to do.  And did it.  And M and I were (and are) committed to that work. 

And we're committed to this new life.  Teaching.  Cooking our own meals.  Enjoying time together. 

The night I got the call, we made love in the tiny kitchen of the row house.  Made love is a generous term.  It was the most eager, intense sex we'd had in a while.  Mostly on the small wooden table we use for the few meals we eat at home. 

And then, we made love in the shower.  Her back against the stone tile as hot water streamed around us. 

And once more, in the bed that night.  Her orgasm one of the strongest I remember. 

Clearly, our bodies wanted this.  A release of tension.  A light.

The mission took everything.  And we paid the price the next morning for our night of passion.  But we could see an end.  A walking out of the cave.  We had both dreamed of this.  And now, it would be real.  In just a few short months. 

I imagine putting on a pair of khaki pants, a white shirt, a simple tie.  Maybe a blue blazer on cooler days.  I think of the leaves turning colors as the semester finds rhythm.  Students in sweatshirts and sandals.  Lazy Fridays when no one makes a sound after noon.  Walks in town or on campus at night.

A rebirth.  A visit again to our days in our 20s.  Maybe we won't have a child after all.  Maybe we'll just celebrate this existence.  Relish it.  Discover ourselves again. 

Reading.  I'll be able to read again.  What I want.  And writing.  I'll be able to write.  Not just the research papers that helped me get this job.  The fiction -- short stories and even a novel -- that I've wanted to get down on paper.  The stories in my head begging to come loose. 

We'll find a role in a church nearby, I'm sure.  I could be a full professor by 50 or so.  And teach 20 years after that. 

I'll know that when our schedule allows, M and I can lunch in my office (or hers).  I'll spot her in the library on a computer and she'll catch me staring.  Always amazed at the tight lines of her muscles, developed from swimming and maintained over this time.  I'll relish the running over new ground.  The cool evenings and the access to fitness equipment. 

I never was much for seafood, so Baltimore fare won't be too much missed. 

We'll be closer to relatives.  Central Kentucky is beautiful at all times.  And we'll use the summers to explore our old favorite places and share childhood stories connected to a barn or street or park. 

Perhaps we'll adopt a cat for our home. Though I know she likes dogs, too. 

This is right.  It feels right.  We're going to teach and fall in love again and grow older.  And we'll be doing it in Oxford, Ohio.