Her husband was kind, steady, utterly committed to her, the object of a long-ago crush. It was the second marriage for them both. He was gray and grizzled but had been comfortable in his middle-aged body for at least a decade, unlike the rest of us, who weren’t sure yet that we were ready to give up. He’d given up years ago. He didn’t seem to regret anything about his life or himself. He seemed like the cool senior, years wiser than any of us freshmen.

I felt good about my relatively youthful body and smooth skin, and about knowing the names and correct pronunciations of Île de la Cité and Berthillon, but in twenty years, what would I feel good about? What stupid things to think about at all.