There was an adjunct living the the graduate dorms. This was before the mechanics of academia were clear in my mind, and the adjuct=poor identity was obvious to me. It was odd as a student having one of the teachers living in the same institutional conditions with me. We had a few conversations over time. My boots, caked with Pariah river mud, sat on the floor of my room for many months. She called them the Van Gogh boots.
Several years later, I was walking to work, and found her sitting on a bench in a storm, getting ready for the day.
In retrospect, I'm also pretty sure that was the last time I saw her.
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