Last night at a party a blonde woman with large breasts brushed up against my arm while we were standing in a crowded living room watching a band from Vancouver perform. I knew it wasn’t an accident because earlier when I was standing outside she put her hand in mine as she walked past and squeezed it. I think the Canailles were on stage. I asked N if she’d seen what just happened. N said yes. She thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. After brushing my arm with her breasts the blonde woman grabbed the crook of my arm with her hand and lightly pulled her hand away. Then she left. I didn’t even get a good look at her face. I found N in line for the bathroom and was about to describe what had just happened, but there were too many people around who I thought wouldn’t understand— maybe they would have understood and it would have been interesting—so I went outside and waited in a chair. Maybe what happened wasn’t interesting and that’s why I didn’t want to say anything. Maybe that would be a weird thing to talk about. Maybe no one would understand. Maybe I didn’t understand myself.
It didn’t matter, anyway. While I was sitting in the chair the woman who had brushed up against me walked past me again. I don’t think she saw me, or if she did see me she had already decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. It’s true that I wasn’t. She was too bold for me. I didn’t even have time to understand what was happening as it was happening, much less respond to her. Not that I would have wanted to.
Now I hear a ringing in my ears. There’s a ringing in my ears and, as always, I ask what that means. As if the gods or a ghost were holding me accountable for what I was writing. As if the pressure change in the atmosphere or in my inner ear that caused the onset of the ringing were orchestrated just for me. To teach me a lesson about writing these things from a position of dominance: ie, writing about the woman as if I had rejected her beforehand. Writing about the woman from my safe vantage. As if I were so secure in my knowledge of myself and my desires to know exactly what I wanted or what I didn’t want. The truth is, I don’t know anything—almost nothing, in fact. Nothing about myself and nothing about others. I had to reach over a chasm just to receive the signals the woman was sending me. I’m not trustworthy reporter of my feelings. If I hadn’t talked to N about it, I might not have even understood the woman’s signals at all. I wish I was exaggerating.
In any case the ringing stopped as soon as I changed direction in this post. That’s the truth, I’m not making it up.