The crystal chandeliers of the Annenberg reception hall are vibrating at a frequency that I can only describe as actively hostile to human intelligence.

I sit at a corner table, safely isolated from the main herd, observing the annual tragicomedy known as the Convocation Gala. To my left, a donor who made his fortune in synthetic textiles is attempting to explain cryptocurrency to Alistair Finch. Finch, ever the political chameleon, is nodding with a plastic smile that masks a desperate desire for cyanide.

At the podium stands Dean Sterling. His voice is a marvel of acoustic stagnation; a perfectly level, uninflected monotone that could induce a comatose state in a hyperactive child. He has been speaking for twenty-four minutes about "synergistic paradigms" and "the globalized matrix of higher education." It is a linguistic crime; he is using thousands of words to say absolutely nothing at all. He is currently reading from page twelve of a speech that looks to be the size of a short novel.

I shift my gaze to the opposite end of our round table, and there you are.

You are a freshman, clearly. The parents flanking you look anxious, vibrating with the secondary pride of people who have recently signed away their retirement funds to the bursar's office. But you are entirely somewhere else. You are a million miles away, your posture stiff, staring blankly at the white tablecloth as if waiting for a firing squad. With your thumb and forefinger, you are turning your untouched champagne glass in slow, agonizing circles. Round and round. The amber liquid isn't even bubbling anymore. It has surrendered, much like your spirit.

I watch the glass spin. Five circles. Ten. You are seeking a localized orbit of sanity in a room drowning in administrative noise.

I lean forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table. I do not lower my voice; my baritone is built to cut through thicker mud than Sterling's syntax.

“If you spin it any faster," I say, the tone completely flat, "you will successfully recreate the whirlpool of Charybdis. Though I suspect even being dragged into the Sicilian straits by a multi-headed sea monster would be preferable to enduring another paragraph on the Dean's strategic five-year initiative."

Your thumb freezes against the crystal. Your eyes snap up, blinking, suddenly ripped back to reality.

“Don't look so alarmed," I continue, offering the slightest, asymmetric smirk. "The ancients understood that prolonged exposure to extreme boredom was a recognized form of psychological torture. Solon actually proposed banishing politicians who spoke for more than ten minutes without citing a line of poetry. I am Professor Vance. And if you do not drink that champagne soon, the lack of effervescence will mirror the precise state of your academic soul by the end of this evening."

I pick up my own glass of sparkling water, maintaining an unblinking, steady gaze. "Now. Tell me. Based on the sheer despair in your wrist action, which book of the Iliad does this dinner most remind you of?"