So there I was walking down Bloor Street beside a woman I greatly admired.  She was a woman who had returned to school in her late thirties and was in my class in Speech Pathology.
 

She was full of determination to make a career and, in her first year of the course, drove back and forth to Hamilton to be with her family on the week ends.    She was very definite and focused on her career goals.
 

We were strolling down Bloor Street in early October, in the evening as I walked her to her in-town apartment at Tartu College after we had finished our practicum at the Audiology Clinic.   
 

She had rough red hair streaming out behind her and, unlike the days we went to class, she wore a suit and very sharp looking beige autumn overcoat with a high collar.
 

Since the rest of the time, I saw her in jeans and a flannel shirt, this was the first time in a long time I could see her muscular calves below the skirt
 

“What’s your wife doing this year?” she asked me.
 

“Oh, she’s working at a research institute while I go to school.   Once I get through, it’ll be her turn to decide what she wants and then I’ll work while she goes to school.”
 

“Well, what are her plans?  What are your plans?”
 

“We don’t know.   We’re still undecided.   We got married quite young and didn’t have set careers in front of us.  I was going to do a PhD and then decided to try to get into medicine.   When I didn’t make it I got into Speech Pathology.  I’m kind feeling down about it at the moment.   I don’t know if I’ll stay in Speech Pathology.”
 

“Where do you hope to work next year?”  I asked her.  “Are you looking for a job in Hamilton?”
 

“No,” she said, “my plans have changed.   My husband and I are trying a trial separation.”
 

She kept walking slowly and steadily but I grabbed her hand, “I didn’t know.  How did it happen?  Oh, I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.  It’s just kind of a shock because it’s the first time I heard it.”
 

She turned and smiled, her red freckles spreading around her warm smile.  The little wrinkles in the corners of her eyes formed quickly as she smiled even more broadly.
 

“Actually, you’re the first one I’ve told.  You’re the only guy in our class and it just seems easier to tell you.   I don’t want to get into it with all the other girls.”
 

I was surprised to see that I was still holding her hand, and for some reason, it just seemed natural to keep on holding it as we continued our stroll.
 

“You know, he never really wanted me to go back to school.  He thinks a woman’s place is at home with the kids.   He just found it too hard to accept that I could have a career of my own.”
 

“What about the kids?”  I asked.
 

“Oh, it’s not so bad.   My daughter is already married and is expecting a baby soon.  My son is nineteen and pretty much O.K. with staying with his father.  You forget I got married really young, so I’m gonna be a grandmother before I’m forty.”
 

“You’re so brave,” I exclaimed.   I don’t know if I could do something like that.”
 

“It’s easy when you know what you want.” Again, that broad warm smile and she squeezed my hand.
 

“What is it you want?” I asked.
 

“I want a man who can accept me as I am, warts and all, a man who can treat me as an equal with my own job, my own ideas.  In my experience, it’s younger men who know how to treat a woman, who are ready to talk to me and, what’s more important, to listen.”
 

We had slowed our pace as we approached the college.   The street lights had come on and as she turned to look at me, I could not tell if the light was coming from behind her or was radiating directly from her and from her face.
 

She took my other hand and gave me a look that drew me toward her, her blue eyes trying to pierce me, to peer inside me as she asked, “You know, you could still try to get into medicine, if you really wanted.  You just need to put your mind to it.   But what is it that you want?”
 

Her smile was now gone, replaced by an expression of hope and expectation.
 

I think my face mirrored hers and I felt for that instant, that the world was hanging in the balance and that everything depended on my answer.
 

I had the urge to say, “What I really want is to make love to every beautiful woman I meet and you are one of the most beautiful women I know.”
 

I had the urge to say, “What I really want is to have a relationship with a mature woman like you who knows exactly what she wants.  I want to give you everything.”
 

I intended to say, “I know exactly what I want and it is you.”
 

Then she would draw me to her, we would embrace and go up to her apartment to make love.
 

But I didn’t say any of these things.
 

Instead, I said, “I really don’t know what I want, but I want to find out.”
 

She held my hands for a moment longer, then smiling dropped them half turned and said, “Thanks so much for walking me home.  Will you be in class tomorrow?” 
 

“Yes,” I said.  “I’ll see you then.”
 

In a flash, she was up the stairs and gone.
 

To Speech Pathology class parties, she then started to bring as her date a young man in his twenties, a chartered accountant.
 

He was so stiff and formal that he did not seem to fit my image of her.  And I noticed she often mothered him by straightening his tie, or telling him he was too warm and to take off his sweater.  He did so with only the hint of a complaint.
 

He was nowhere near as amusing or creative as I was.   But as she announced their engagement before the end of the school year, he obviously knew what he wanted, or at least how to answer the question she had asked me, correctly.