Ruth Yancey yearns for adventure. No, she craves it—the way some people crave cigarettes or chocolate or even guacamole dip. Yet, in spite of this craving she feels burning inside, Ruth’s life has always been quite predictable, therefore, devoid of adventure; and at fifty she suspects nothing will change. Her days will continue to be carbon copies one of the other, identical in every respect. She will drive to the University of Louisiana three days a week each semester, teach her courses, fail some students, pass others. She will travel each summer to Cape Cod, sometimes Maine, and she will continue to date Dr. Malcolm Reinhart until he “pops the question” and she voices the predictable answer of “yes”. There will be no adventure, none at all; and knowing this causes a heavy sadness she sees looking back at her each time she glances into the mirror.

On a blustery day in March, with the wind growling around the eaves and pawing at the window of her office in Griffin Hall, Ruth expels a long breath of either boredom or acceptance (she isn’t sure which), as she logs on to the university’s Web page to check her e-mail. And there it is, the first message she sees. “Snow” is the subject; the sender is Sean Newborn.

Ruth looks from the subject line to the sender and back again. She maneuvers the mouse, points the cursor at the message, and hesitates. She takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, so slowly it is not a breath at all but the barest of sighs. Then she clicks on the message:

Hi Ruth. Northern Montana doesn’t know it’s spring, not if you look out my windows. The snow is flying, and the drifts are closing in on five feet, maybe more. Did you know you can actually hear snow fall? It whispers and rustles, creating a symphony of nature; and if you turn your face up to the skies, you can see the flakes swirling downward—millions of them—and when they caress your eyes, your lips, it’s like being kissed by God.  I thought of you this morning when I awoke. Lying under the mountain of covers, with the flames leaping in the fireplace, and. . . .

            Feeling her heart do a quick two-step, Ruth clicks on “Inbox” and opens the next message:

Your attendance is requested in the Alumni House at 1:00 to welcome Mr. Jonas S. Granger, author of Comes A Horseman, who has accepted the university’s summer residency in creative writing. A catered lunch will be served. –Dean Hargrove

            Clicking on “Inbox” again, tapping her fingers beside the mouse for a moment, she then points the cursor at the third message, but instead of opening it, she goes back to “Snow” and clicks:

I thought of you this morning when I awoke. Lying under the mountain of covers, with the flames leaping in the fireplace, and Picasso curled at my feet, purring in that way he has—so loud, so macho, so un-cat-like. You know something; I don’t believe Picasso knows he’s a cat. Instead, he believes he’s a lion, but perhaps believing is enough for him. You know, that concept of alternate realities, how we each create our own reality through the choices we make. Such is the case with Picasso. Picasso chooses to be a lion.

            How, she wonders, did this happen? How did I find myself corresponding with some man in Montana, a man I have never met and probably never will? Yet she knows the answer. He was a student in an online course she taught a year ago. They began corresponding after the course ended, discussing politics, then music, art, literature, and moved on to their likes and dislikes, similarities and differences, discovering they had so much in common, especially a love of the outdoors and of adventure. Except, she thinks, he is doing something about it. He is living that adventure.

Still, Ruth wonders how a simple correspondence evolved into something else, something not so simple, something that, instead, has become quite complicated.

            But only if you choose to make it complicated, whispers that voice—that oh so logical voice—that resides inside her head. Ruth glances toward the window, watches the boughs of an oak toss fitfully against the blue March sky.  Only if you choose.   

            Turning her gaze back to the computer screen, she clicks on “Inbox.” The third message is from her daughter:

Hi Mom, guess what? I passed Dr. Frankel’s course, the old curmudgeon. Made a B. I think I deserved an A, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers, right? Well, gotta run; I’m meeting some friends for lunch. Be home Easter Break. Love, Katie

            Ruth frowns as she stares at the screen. Beggars can’t be choosers. But is that necessarily true ? After all, if a cat can choose to be lion, then anything is possible.

            She moves the cursor back to “Inbox,” clicks once again on “Snow:”

Picasso chooses to be a lion. And what about you? What do you choose to be?

Ruth looks back at the window, where wispy clouds stream across the sky, and the oak continues its fitful tossing. What do I choose to be?  Thinking this, she moans and wraps her arms across her chest. What do I choose to be? I am a professor of English, but did I choose that, or did my parents when they insisted I attend Bernard instead of the Art Institute? I am the mother of two children, both grown, both in control of their lives, both happy. Yet did I choose to be a mother, or did it just happen? Was being a mother simply what was expected when I married? And what about my marriage? Did I choose Quentin or did he choose me? And don’t forget the divorce. Did I choose to be divorced? Or did Quentin make that decision when he fell in love with someone else. Oh, but he made a choice, all right. Yes, indeed, he chose a twenty-three-year-old girl over his middle-aged wife.

Sighing in what she suspects is a combination of self-pity and disgust, Ruth turns back to the computer and clicks on “Inbox.” Message four is from a student, Shanna Davis:

Dr. Yancey, can I meet with you this week to discuss my last paper? I think I deserve a higher grade. Nothing personal, but you grade too strictly, and no one ever told me I had to cite sources within a paper, and I don’t think it’s fair for me to be accused of plagiarism. I did list all the sources on the reference page. Why isn’t that enough? It really isn’t fair. I don’t deserve a D. So can we please meet? You choose the time and place.

 You choose the time and place, Ruth thinks and clicks on “Inbox” then “Snow:”

Picasso chooses to be a lion. And what about you? What do you choose to be?  You have told me how much you long for a different life, but only you can change it. Only you can choose to be a lion. No one else can make that choice for you. And that brings me to my offer. It still stands. I was serious when I suggested it last week. Why don’t you come here this summer, let me show you the sights? We’ll go hiking. You can listen to the silence. You can revel in the great outdoors. No strings attached. And if things develop, they develop. If they don’t, well, such is life, right?

Such is life, right? Ruth frowns. And just what would she say to her children, her colleagues? Hey, guess what, I’m going to the wilds of Montana to visit a guy I met on the Internet?  Then again, she really doesn’t have to tell them anything, now does she? Not unless she chooses.

But what does she really know about Sean Newborn? She shifts her gaze back to the window. He’s intelligent, educated, and personable (at least in writing). He is six-feet tall, fifty-five-years-old, balding (He sent her a picture taken against a backdrop of towering spruce and snowcapped mountains). He has nice eyes, the kind people often describe as “soulful.” He believes in Thoreau’s admonishment “to suck out all the marrow of this bone called life.” He is retired military—colonel, United States Marines. He designs computer software programs. He lives simply, in a cedar cabin on a lake surrounded by thousands of acres of National Forest. He uses a sled to haul supplies each winter. Moose and bear forage around his cabin, and, at night, wolves howl in the distance.

Ruth looks back at the computer screen:

No strings attached. And if things develop, they develop. If they don’t, well, such is life, right? Think about it. I don’t want to seem pushy, and I promise you I’m not some nut case that stalks college professors via email. In fact, I never thought I would strike up a friendship with anyone, especially a female, over the Internet. It really isn’t in my nature. But happen it did, so I guess, like Picasso, I made a choice, didn’t I? I am writing to Ruth Yancey because I choose to do so, and if you choose not to come here this summer—or any summer, for that matter—I will respect your decision, although I hope we can continue corresponding. I hope you will choose to continue being my friend—if only in cyberspace and never face-to-face.

 A sudden gust of wind rattles the windowpanes, and Ruth jumps, clicks on “Inbox” and the next unopened message:

Ruth, I arrived in San Francisco last night as expected. The hotel is nice, not exactly the Ritz Carlton, but my room has a Jacuzzi, which makes it bearable. The conference, as you know, begins today and ends Friday.  My return flight leaves Friday evening, so if the plane is on schedule, I should arrive back in Lafayette late that night. Don’t forget the soiree at the President’s house on Saturday. It’s from 7:00 ‘til, so I’ll pick you up at 6:30, but if I had a choice, I would choose not even to attend. You know how I feel about Albert, but he does have the last word in choosing who becomes the next Chair. Love, Malcolm

 Ruth sighs and clicks on “Inbox,” lets the cursor hover. If I had a choice, she thinks. But Malcolm does have a choice. He is, after all, a tenured professor.  But then he wants to be department chair, and as he said, Albert has the last word in choosing who gets the position.

Of course, she too is a tenured professor, but was that a choice she made? As a girl, she never chose to be a professor when she grew up. Instead, she wanted to be an artist—chose to be an artist. But as her mother said, “An artist? My God, Ruth, do you want to spend the rest of your life dabbling in paints and eking out an existence? Being an artist isn’t a career. It’s a hobby. When it comes to reality, we all must make sensible choices”

Ruth clicks on “Snow:”

I hope you will choose to continue being my friend—if only in cyberspace and never face-to-face. We all make choices, Ruth.  Even Picasso. Remember, he chooses to be a lion.

 Yes, Ruth thinks, we all make choices. But sometimes we do not choose what we really want because others choose for us, and once those choices are made, it’s too late to undo what has been done. We are trapped in the reality of the here and now, and that alternate reality is no more than a dream that fades with each passing day. It’s just the way things are.

And thinking this, Ruth clicks “Delete.”  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “But not everyone can be a lion.”