Zapped

(8 November 2002)

There was this school teacher I’d begun corresponding with while I was in the US, when I got back we spoke briefly over the phone and decided to meet soon.  A few days later, he called saying that he had an extra ticket for a concert, and proposed that we meet in front of the concert hall, just before the concert.  I hadn’t sent him a photo yet, so I described what I looked like and what I’d be wearing.  In any case, he was so tall I couldn’t miss him in the crowd, and he looked exactly his photo.  So it wasn’t just a bad photo. (I’d given him the benefit of the doubt.)

He was totally into the music, obviously enjoying himself.  At the end he sat staring off into space like a zombie for quite awhile.  Finally, after most of the crowd had left, I waved my hand in front of his face; he made a gesture to brush me away.  Okay.  Then he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and extracted one with his lips.  On the way down the steps, there was an obstacle in the middle, instead of moving around it so that we could walk down together; he veered off to the left.  I wasn’t going to chase after him, the meaning of his gesture was obvious, and so I went down the right side of the steps.  Outside he didn’t offer to have a drink together, or even bother to spend a few minutes talking; instead he announced immediately that he was tired, that he felt like walking, and that he was parked far away.  I headed to the metro.  No great opportunity lost there—he’d clearly zapped me on appearances alone.  And hey I look pretty good.

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