Bakhtin

Outside, the sky was alight with the fire of night’s advance; blue, pink and yellow mingled in ways only seen on truckstop postcards. Inside, Peri perched herself in front of the television, behind a stack of ungraded papers, beside a bottle of chardonnay, and under a log cabin quilt. The high mountain summer night wasn’t cold enough to warrant the quilt but it was a happy remnant of the past.

She hated being to be the professor to assign papers discussing the ramifications of Mikhail Bakhtin on modern writers because she was the professor that had to read and evaluate each paper; however, it paid the bills no matter how contrived the essays were. At least it wasn’t Calvino.

The phone pulled Peri from her loathing. “Hello?”

“We’re coming over,” Bridget said. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

“Who’s we?” Peri asked jumping from the sofa looking down at her boxers and Surf Colorado tee.

“A few of us from the department. Got any wine?”

“Of course.”

“Good. We’ll be there in a few.”

“Damn it!” Peri said hanging up the phone. She ran up the stairs tripping on the top step. She tore through her drawers throwing on a pair of dress pants and a black tee – simple, understated but semi-professional. Her new colleagues were used to seeing her in a business suit among the academic halls full of jeans and oversized sweatshirts.