she said something about 7.27.96
She said something about his shoes. It was enough. It was enough to set his world spinning, if no one else's. That night, at least. That night which played itself out frantically, trying all the while to appear as though appearances meant nothing. Knowing that there is never any time but the present. Knowing that there is never anyone present but the one. The one living in that present. Eternally, as far as we can tell. As far as we can tell there is nothing more. More or less nothing. The same thing. The same things said again and again. Through a succession of presents. And then something about his shoes. Then, some time later, a present now past, something about a film he had seen. She had seen it as well, or so she said. And he wondered how she had seen it, if she would see it again. Thankful that for once an introduction would be easier. A shared vocabulary. He thinks of a prior incarnation. Of himself now another. He thinks of things he has said, wonders how she would say them. Wonders what language she speaks, and what she would choose to say with those tools called words or eyes. He doesn't remember her eyes, that next day. He wonders why. He wonders where he was looking all night, why he couldn't focus on what was in front of him. Why the sentences fell so quickly from his lips. Did he say too much when she asked about Marienbad? Was it a mistake to mention Duras? It was a matter of sincerity, nonetheless, more or less. Sometimes, however, he is afraid of saying too much. He says too much about some things, the same things, random things, but not very often, and usually only when asked. There are so many things to mention in the course of an encounter. An encounter conscious of its own transience, even when there is such a thing as a first impression. It doesn't matter really, if she understands-or wants to-he will be forgiven. Forgiven for trying to overstep the topical concerns of initial acquaintance. Forgiven for an intellectual indiscretion born of an indefinite aspiration, and the desperate need to know, as soon as possible, how much can be said. How can it be said? That he wonders about someone he has never known. That he has no right to assume transparency. He is afraid to project, and unable not to. It has been a lesson of history, or of time if history is too unfathomable, it has been a lesson that no progress can be made without a certain candor. A frightening candor. A beautiful candor, pure, all the more so, for trying to seem obscure. To speak one's mind, effortlessly. And to watch without appearing watchful, without wanting to appear watchful, without wanting to think about not wanting to appear watchful, to watch for the indications of a complementary awareness, the outline of an uncommon and intricate ideal. There are days like this, he thinks, also people. There are days for people like this. But not as many as he once thought there would be. She said something about something so small. And for that he is grateful, that's all.