He was, at first, one in a crowd, and I did not distinguish him.
He was, at first, another in a gang of young men, all a bit cocky, all a bit nervous, all with names that seemed to begin with the same letter.
This caused me some confusion; I could never remember his name.
I knew nothing about him.
Except that he seemed less cocky than the others.
No less nervous.
One night, bitter cold outside, a loud and crowded night, we crossed paths at a bar.
People were everywhere, drunk and pushing and clawing at each other.
He sat alone on a high stool in the corner, wedged between the bar and the wall, shielded, perhaps.
I was escaping the clutches of an intoxicated friend, so the stool next to him, in the makeshift alcove, seemed inviting.
He did not brush me away.
I sat.
We spoke.
I certified his name.
I learned his story.
He was, newly, alone.
We drank beer together, and continued to talk, but I did not notice that others noticed us.
Perhaps they made remarks.
I do not know.
Suddenly, the lights in the bar became brighter, and we both realized that it was very late, closing time.
As the saying goes, we did not have to go home, but we could not stay there.
We left the bar.
We went to my house.
Not to fuck, although that could have happened.
But it did not.
Merely to avoid driving after so many beers.
He was nervous about the situation, and offered repeatedly to sleep on the couch or the floor (really?) but I reassured him that he would be more comfortable in the bed.
Sleep, I said, and the morning will bring light and sobriety.
It is late.
We spoke a bit, and I, lacking self-consciousness about such things, removed my clothes to sleep in my underwear, and turned off the light, and he removed his clothes and slipped in beside me.
In the darkness, in the silence, there were loud thoughts.
I took a bold chance, and asked him, aloud, but softly, if he would like to hold me.
He did, for a few minutes, and then we turned on our sides and we slept.
The next morning, lying in bed, we chatted, small talk, laughing, just as two friends might do after a night of drinking and sleeping.
What a night! Did you see him? He was so wasted!
Just as friends.
Yet I knew, and he knew, that we were not friends.
I did not press this, and I suggested we dress, and then I took him back to his car.
We hugged and he went off into the morning.
People had noticed us.
A friend called me.
He wants your number.
Give it to him.
He called.
We spoke.
It was…nothing.
He friended me.
We watched each other from afar, warily.
I tried to play the delicate game.
But I could not.
I was electrified by the taste of it, and I wanted it by the mouthful.
He came after me, and followed me, showing up where he knew I would be.
Another bitterly cold night, another crowded bar full of watching eyes.
He was aroused but also full of protestation and denial.
Too soon, too confused, too sensitive, too hurt.
I knew that his attitude was both wise and foolish.
I knew mine was both as well.
I suggested we walk outside, it is so hot and crowded in here, the cold air will be bracing.
I wanted a moment alone and he did not deny me.
Against an old brick wall, with freezing air swirling underneath my black, satin skirt, we kissed at last.
It was all hungry tongues and pressing hands.
It only lasted for a minute.
A minute was enough to know.
Still, he withdrew, whether out of wisdom or foolishness, into a place of retreat,
A cocoon, an alcove
Where he could protect himself and consider,
To move slowly and carefully.
I never move slowly,
Never carefully.
I allow myself no alcoves.
Yet I waited, poised to act, and there were bits of communication between us, very chaste, very pleasant, very off the subject that was likely most on our minds.
I see your work is coming along nicely.
I hope you are having a good holiday.
How is your family?
It sounds like a very big project.
At last, there was a message.
There was a break in the fog and a horizon emerged.
Another cold night, another bar, this one not crowded, no watching eyes.
I was there and he came to me, quickly, seemingly driving two feet above the road.
We could laugh and touch and talk with no barriers between us or around us.
The space around us was no longer confining.
Another end of a long night, another trip to a darkened room with a bed to share.
I did not know what would happen and I had no expectation.
Again, I removed my clothes to sleep in my underwear.
Thankfully, it was black and matching and trimmed in lace.
I did not matter, as he removed it all very quickly.
It was all conducted with hunger and shifting positions and the standard remarks.
“Are you watching me?”
“Yes.”
When it was done, I could sense his satisfaction, yet I could also sense his remoteness, his unwillingness to attach his emotions to this or to me or to anything.
We slept.
Another morning of light and sobriety, and another trip to his car.
I do not recall any embrace.
Only a polite goodbye.
For weeks, my efforts to be light and flirtatious were fruitless.
He withdrew again into his shell, taking weekend trips to platonic hideaways, immersing himself in work.
It was a modular alcove, I learned, one that could be erected or dismantled in a moment, as needed.
Then, one night, he emerged again, showing up where he knew I would be.
There was a bit of flirting, the meeting of the eyes that showed we both knew there had been an experience that neither of us could really ever wall away.
A touch of knees under a table.
A soft kiss.
And then, the walls returned.
I heard about his ultimate retreat in the most impersonal way.
But the message affected me personally, deeply, intensely.
I was, as all wise fools know, not only cast aside but declared null and void, and to be strictly avoided, as the presence of this woman would cause rancor and poison and questions that had no simple answers.
I was to be erased.
I erected my own alcove.
I removed all inscriptions from its walls and stripped them quite bare.
All around me was painted over, white and plain and flat.
It would be a year before I saw him again, accidentally.
I had overheard whispers about him, updating me on his life, whispers that cut into me despite my efforts to block them.
I saw him, as I came around a corner, and he was there, and his eyes, I saw them.
He lifted his chin a bit, a soft chin, and this gesture always denotes self-protection.
It is defensive.
I was not attacking, or bold, all warmth and pleasantness and ease.
He had nothing to fear from me or my presence.
Or did he?
I could see his eyes.
I saw them.
He saw me.
There can be no walls.
