This doesn’t start normally. I mean there is no normal narrator here. I’m partial. But isn’t everyone, without admitting it? I think it’s fine and normal to admit that impartial narrators are a thing of the past.
There’s a woman with me. Isn’t there always a woman? This is shaping itself into a normal story, albeit one with the fourth wall broken down. We find ourselves at a party. The woman and I are recently broken up. I didn’t want to attend, but the woman pulled me here. And I’m not really one to say no, I’m not really one to have a backbone.
So I’m standing around at this party, and my hair is kissing my shoulders, and the woman is talking to a man in the northern california way which she knows dear and well. And I can’t blame her, really. What did I ever offer her? That’s then I realize I have little to offer at all.
She comes up to me, puts her hands on my chest, and says,
“I’m so glad you came!”
“Am I supposed to be here?”
“Of course you are silly!”
She looks past me but doesn’t respond.
She looks good and long at me, brushes my shirt with her hand, and returns to the dance floor to find him. She’s dancing, cheek to cheek as they say. I know love ebbs and flows when you least expect it. But it’s always true. If just for a while.