All of this was familiar: the dull linoleum floor; the windows with years of dust; the motes in the air; the oval table, with her inquisitors around it; and herself, sitting at the table with the five of them. From her left, Bruckner, Cornish, Lemieux, Montalvo, and Warner. They were in alphabetical order, probably a coincidence.

She knew all these men, and Warner, the sole woman. She knew, approximately, the questions they were going to ask her, most of them irrelevant. Bruckner would ask show-off questions and pass her if her answers took his questions seriously. Warner, the only woman, and a feminist, would pass her. Lemieux, her adviser, would do everything he could to help her, but without being obvious, and above all without rocking any boats. Cornish and Montalvo were going to be difficult.

She knew that the questions were a way for her examiners to show they were prepared, and to check that she herself had prepared, that she was taking the game seriously. She was tired of the ritual, and she was nervous. She never did well when she was nervous, and the only way she'd ever found to keep calm was to be over-prepared. She hadn't studied enough.

Bruckner opened: "It seems to me that you've concentrated more on the politics of coffee here than on the economics. You quote Moore and his notion of a 'bourgeois revolution', which seems almost neo-Marxist, or revisionist Marxist. But the title of your dissertation implies that the subject is coffee as a force for egalitarianism. Have you considered Torres-Rivas' idea that the Isthmian elites are both agricultural and industrial?"

"Yes. I quote him on page - ". Ada flipped through the copy in front of her. "Page eighty-three. I agree with him. I quoted Moore because... I quoted him because I think he's right. There are elites. Torres-Rivas is right, too. Moore oversimplifies." Bad answer, because unclear. Worse, Bruckner's face was red because her answer had shown that he'd missed the reference to Torres-Rivas. Strike one.

Lemieux tried to smooth things over with a question of elaboration, asking her to explain the difference between Moore and Torres-Rivas. When she botched the answer again, he switched to a different tack: "How does the fluctuation in coffee prices affect the relations between the elite and the small growers?"

Ada sighed. It was going to be a long morning. She should have eaten breakfast. She needed to go to the bathroom, too, but it was too soon to ask.

Her focus, and her answers, improved as the questioning continued. She was finally getting into the groove, but not enough to make up for her early mistakes. Cornish asked only one question, an easy one. Montalvo grilled her mercilessly. And Bruckner recovered with several more show-off questions. Ada thought she might actually squeak by. Around mid-day they asked her to wait outside for a little while. "A little while" turned out to be an hour, so it was going to be close.

They called her in and suggested that she revise a few sections of the dissertation. "It wouldn't take much effort", Lemieux said. "You're very close to having a defensible work. We've written down our suggestions. A few more months -- "

"No, thank you," she interrupted. "One Ph.D. is enough. Ostentation isn't my style. Besides, I won't be able to get it done before the baby." When no one spoke, and finally when no one seemed about to, she thanked them and left. Outside, in the hall, she laughed. It was over, and she didn't have to do anything. For the first time she didn't care; she didn't have to meet anyone's expectations, not even her own. She'd had enough.

She wanted to dance down the hall, singing. This was a new experience; interesting, even, to give up for the first time, knowing that she'd wasted her effort. What had possessed her to go through this exercise in masochism a second time? Boredom, or force of habit?

Lemieux caught up to her on the steps outside. "That was embarrassing. Are you really throwing this away? All your work and time?"

"Yes. I have something else to think about. I'm through with academics."

"Well, then," he said, and handed her the dissertation. "You left this behind. You might as well keep it. As a souvenir." He smiled. "I don't blame you. I almost did the same thing when I defended mine."

"Thank you. It was nice knowing you."

"The pleasure was mine. You were - are - a great student."

She called Owen from campus, and from home, but couldn't find him. He was probably in a meeting somewhere. She headed for Sarah's and watched her friend take photographs for two hours. It was boring, and calming, and she enjoyed it.

"There," Sarah said when her last customer left. "Would you like some coffee?"

"That's hysterical. No. Not today."

"So tell me what happened. Did you pass?"

"No."

"Bastards."

"It was my own fault. I wasn't prepared."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm not sure. It's complicated. I'm worried what I'll say to Owen. He wanted me to get that second doctorate. But I never wanted it much. I don't care that I failed, but it bothers me that I don't care. It doesn't bother me that I failed, it bothers me that it doesn't bother me. I don't know what to do now." She lifted her shoulders and held out her arms in front of her, palms up. "I have no idea what I'm going to do. That's what worries me more than anything else."

"Take it easy. Get ready for the baby."

"I've never taken it easy. I don't know how."

"It's time you learned."

"Where are you hiding Dougal these days? I haven't seen him in weeks."

"They're touring." Dougal and Wyatt had gone from jamming in Wyatt's basement to forming a band. "All the little clubs between here and St. Louis and Chicago and Oklahoma. They have a following. The college radio stations play them a lot. They're popular in Columbia, Fayetteville, Lincoln. All the college towns."

"But doesn't Wyatt feel like - doesn't it seem small, after L.A.?" Ada asked.

"No," Sarah said. "I don't think so. He likes to play, but he told me he lost his ambition after that second album failed, and he likes the small clubs better. Crowds make him nervous."

"How does he pay the mortgage?"

"There isn't any. He paid cash. He got the L.A. house before real estate in California started going up. Then it quadrupled and he sold it."

"How lucky for him."

"You never told me what exactly happened between you two."

"Oh, he was my first boyfriend but then he moved out there and I thought he was abandoning me. I thought his band were horrible, nasty people. When I visited him, everything was ugly and wrong. I didn't know that when you've been apart you have to be patient. I didn't think we could make things work from so far away." Ada wrapped her hands around her knees, but the baby kicked and she leaned back. "Oh, the baby's kicking again. She seems to like this time of day for that."

"She?" Sarah pulled her chair closer and put her hand on Ada's belly.

"Well, I have to call it something. I call him 'he' just as much. You're probably not going to feel anything. It's usually just one kick. Move your hand down a little. Left. There. That's the spot."

"You don't know the sex yet?"

"No. I don't want to. Owen wants a boy, but he knows I want to be surprised. If he knows the sex, he's doing a good job of hiding it. But he's always been good at hiding things."

"Why did you marry him? Were you on the rebound from Wyatt?"

"No. He was in love with me. He wanted me so badly he couldn't stop coming back. He had to have me."

"Too bad Wyatt wasn't like that."

"Wyatt's a realist. That's his weakness. He knew I meant what I said, and he went back to L.A., back to his band."

"But Owen wouldn't stop."

"No, but I never really tried to get rid of him. By then, I was so lonely I would have dated Frankenstein. No one so much as looked at me. Ever. For years on end. I was so hurt after Wyatt I was poisoned. Owen was the only man who wasn't scared of me. Nothing frightens him, nothing. I don't think he knows what fear is. But I never slept with him."

"Really? He must have wanted it. Men always do."

"He had other girlfriends. I didn't care. I didn't plan to marry him. I just wanted male companionship. He never even made a pass at me. He probably knew I'd run away if he did."

"So why did you marry him?"

"I wanted children. I needed a husband so I could start a family. He was the only candidate. I don't know anything about business, but I think a marriage is like a business deal. You give something, you get something. Owen is a very good negotiator. He wore me down. I was tired and he wore me down. I finally gave up and signed the deal. I was lonely. It looked like the best deal I was going to get."

"Do you love him?"

"Yes. Not so much romantically. Actually, that too, although it took a while. I love him more as a spouse, a mate. After Gina I detested him. I never thought I could feel that way about anyone, but I did. Then there was Alaska, and he was so happy and boyish and he's been so good and kind since then, and I feel - " she gestured outward from her breasts, "I feel this warmth, this bond with him. We have so many things together, things we've shared through the years. Companionship. We understand each other. Yes I love him. Things change in a marriage. They're always changing. I like this, this domesticity. This feeling of having a hearth, and sharing your hearts. I only wish he were home more."

Sarah took her hand off Ada's belly. "This is never going to happen to me," she said.

"A child? Why not? Doesn't Dougal want one?"

"I don't know. We never talk about it. It's not him. It's this." She indicated the studio with a tilt of her head. "I'd have to cut back on my work, and I couldn't do that. It wouldn't be fair."

"Dougal could help."

"Dougal, a father? You have no idea how irresponsible he is. I would never have a baby with him. Besides..."

"What?"

Sarah's face crumpled. "He still sees that old boyfriend sometimes. I don't think they have sex, but I'm so afraid he'll go back to him. I think he's just with me to try to prove that he's straight or something. Sometimes the things he wants in bed are strange. Very strange. They make me wonder. He's more gay than straight. He's going to leave me. I know he's going to."

"I'm sorry."

"No. I've come to terms with it. I won't be surprised. I'll probably go back to being gay, myself."

"Does it bother you to be in love with him?"

Sarah nodded. "Oh, yes. Uncontrollably. I hate it. I hate relying on someone that way. Needing him. Especially a man. It's much easier with women. I don't know why."

"Isn't there anything you can do? Can't you talk to him?"

"No. If there was a solution, I would have found it. But there isn't. He doesn't love me. He's just using me, and when he wakes up to who he really is, he'll leave. That's just the way it is."

"Let's go eat. The baby makes me hungry. We can talk over dinner."

When they returned to the studio they saw lights on, though they'd left the place dark.

"Oh, no," Sarah moaned. "They weren't supposed to be back until tomorrow. I can't face him alone. Will you come up for a while?"

"Why don't we go to my house?"

"No. I want to see him. Just give me some moral support, okay?"

No one was there, but a letter was on the table, propped against a candlestick, with Sarah's name. She read it, dropped it on the table, and left the room. Ada folded the letter and put it back in the envelope without reading it, and waited. Fifteen minutes passed. She went back to the bedroom and knocked. No answer. She opened the door. Sarah lay on the bed.

"Sarah."

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"He didn't even have the guts to say goodbye in person. He's gone. He says he can't be with me. I knew it. I knew he was about to."

"I'm sorry. It's so strange and sad, that two people in love should break up. Or maybe not. I should know."

"I told you it was inevitable." A long pause while she stared at the ceiling. "You are lucky, to be who you are. You have no idea. I would rather be you than me. It would be so much easier. You'll never have to go through anything like this."

"Don't be ridiculous. I already have. Remember Gina?"

"He still wanted to keep you. No one would ever dump you. You're too nice. They always dump me. It's part of who I am... Oh, this pain," Sarah moaned. "This pain. I can't take it. I'm going to die." She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. "When they say your heart breaks, it actually feels that way. I've never had a relationship that worked. How do you make them work?"

"I don't know. Even when they seem to work, they don't."

Sarah sat up. Tears poured down her cheeks. "Hold me for a while."

So Ada did. She held her friend and rocked her and cooed to her, as she would to a child, until the sobbing and the tears stopped and Sarah lay back on the bed exhausted and silent. Ada waited until Sarah fell asleep, and found a quilt in the closet and covered her with it.

She called home. "It's me... I know... I'm at Sarah's. Dougal just dumped her, and he didn't do a very good job of it. I have to stay and watch her, I'm afraid she'll hurt herself... I want to help my friend... I should be home in the afternoon... I don't know. She's taking it - it's very hard for her... Thanks, I can't think of anything. If there is, I'll call you... I'll be home when I get there."

She slept on the couch and woke late, to a knock on the door. It was a client.

"I'm sorry. Sarah's indisposed, she can't work... I don't know her schedule, but if you give me your name, I'll make sure she gets it as soon as she can - " she almost said 'function' - "as soon as she's well enough to get out of bed."

After the man had gone, she taped a note on the door and locked it. She changed the message on the answering machine to say the studio was closed, and that callers should leave their names and phone numbers.

She found Sarah unresponsive at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. Ada cooked breakfast for her friend. Sarah picked up her fork and pushed the scrambled eggs and hash browns around the plate. Ada sat next to her at the table and curled two fingers through the handle of her coffee cup and waited. She knew that eventually Sarah would have to speak: her patience was the lesser, and Ada could outwait her. Then she could listen, and help her friend begin to forget.