Niccoldi lived alone in a decent-sized house not far from campus. It was walkable in a pinch, but he drove anyway. Walking was something he reserved for his leisure. He was a professor, not a peasant.
Between writing his book, preparing his lessons, grading student papers, watching television and the occasional drink with fellow faculty, Niccoldi had little problem filling his time. That was a good thing, too; had he not been so preoccupied, his loneliness might have gotten him in trouble. His wife had divorced him years ago and their daughter went out of state for college. The women who could match his intellect and achievements were stale and haughty and gray. It took young and vibrant and passionate to stoke his fire. In other words, a student.
Un Lampo di Bianco Scene 58
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