I teach history at the high school, downtown. Pretty old school, you know? Buttoned up. Always wear a tie, even in summer. My students probably think I was born in a suit. My colleagues too. I try to be like that. The proper one. The good example. My parents came here with nothing, worked their fingers to the bone so I could have a "good life," a "respected profession." And I do. I am. But it’s a performance, isn’t it? All of it. The other day, Mrs. Henderson from English, she was talking about her husband, something about their anniversary. And I just nodded, smiled. Said "Oh, that's lovely." Like I understood. Like I have a "lovely" life too. But my wife, she’s home, probably watching some show in another language that I don't understand, or half-understand. We don't really talk much about… us. Our life. We just… coexist. My kids are grown, out of the house. They call, mostly for money, or to tell me how busy they are. My parents are getting old, back in the old country. I send money, I call, I listen to them complain about aches and pains, about the neighbors, about how I should visit more. I feel like I’m constantly just checking boxes. Husband box. Father box. Son box. Teacher box. Is that weird? To feel like you're playing a part? Like you’re just reading lines someone else wrote for you? Sometimes I look at my reflection in the classroom window, and I don't even recognize the guy in the tie. He looks tired. REALLY tired. And I just think, is this it? This is what all the hard work was for? To be this… quiet, polite, well-dressed robot? I don’t know. Just thinking. It’s late.