She had deep brown skin that became a shade lighter in winter and darkened like a grape in summer. Not only did her complexion change with the seasons, her eyes seemed to as well. They were light grey in winter and deepened to an emerald green in summer. I watched this natural magic occur from June till September when we drove to Belle Isle for picnics. Summer had come early this year and lingered idly into fall, as if it didn’t know its time here was over and done, that others in some far away land were waiting impatiently for its appearance.

She would catch me staring at her some Sundays while she did her reading. When this occurred I would spread my gaze to include the river, the sky-line and the bridge in front of us. We would pause for a moment, sometimes issue a brief, intimate smile to each other, and return to whatever we were doing. For me that would be listening to some Sarah Vaughn lyrics on the CD player we always brought with us. Or wondering what it would be like to give her a lotion-soaked back massage that evening, while discussing my next production, the news of the day, or anything that came to mind. I could do that for hours, just like she did her studies.

Most men are jealous of some imaginary competitor they’ve conjured out of the urban mist. My adversaries were several and nearby—books she had to read and write reports on, stories she had to create, papers she had to grade. Deadlines were always at her door-step. Occasionally, she would ask for my help; she called me the professor, though I hadn’t taught classes in years, probably never would again. That song had ended, but the melody lingered on.

I would take time to make the corrections for her, always on a separate sheet or on a computer disc, so neither her students nor her department head could trace them to me in case a disgruntled student complained. They never did. My critiques were detailed, persuasive, encouraging. I always managed to find something in their writing to praise, no matter how mediocre their work actually was. To some extent I was a con-man.

The students whose papers I critiqued actually thanked her for my insight, without suspecting there was a hidden hand, a secret sharer, behind the comments. Some whose themes she corrected, complained to her when they discovered the analysis I had given to their class-mates. Eventually, to stop the comparisons and the complaints, she asked me to do them all. How could I refuse, though I paused before replying to make her suppose the issue was in doubt. It wasn’t. I knew how overworked she was, trying to teach, study for her coursework, take her exams and research and write her thesis. Besides, I had a proposition to put to her as well, and my superlative efforts in her behalf were intended to make her agreement to mine a logical conclusion, a mere formality. I would say, “Please…”, and she would say, “Of course…” As the proverb says, “One hand washes the other.”

When she walked across the stage to get her degree, I thought a significant portion of it I had earned. I felt proud, discreet and sly, not an easy combination to put together. I had been of some help and had, in my own small way, beaten the system. And that was acceptable, in this context, equitable. I knew other women who had been pushed away from their dreams because of the insensitivity of the institution, its disinterest in sacrifice, its blindness to need, and I was determined not to let any of these obstacles overwhelm her. Moreover, I had contacts who could make unfortunate things happen to people, and had no compunction about providing my former colleagues with fresh assignments should the need arise.

When I got through the throng to congratulate her we hugged intensely.

“You made it, Doctor.”

She acknowledged other well-wishers who passed by, then turned back to me with a full smile swelled with relief and accomplishment.

“I can’t thank you enough, Professor.”

“You could, you know.”

Her lips pursed, but nothing was added. I, too, didn’t say anything.

“I’ll be leaving soon for the coast. You know I’ve got this splendid job offer to check out. I can’t wait around for something to open up here.” She hesitated. “You won’t have any more papers to correct.”

“Nor any picnics on Belle Isle.”

I had known before we got involved that she would be leaving. We had discussed it many times. She had worked too hard for too long to defer the opportunities her ambition and intellect had made possible, that this big- small town could never provide.

Even so, I couldn’t help second-guessing the situation. Maybe I should have spent more time on my own work. Maybe I should have pressed her harder to stay. Maybe… Well, I thought, the island is still there and summer will come again.