From all the way across the courtyard one Barbour jacket called out to the other—dirty blonde to brunette.

“Oh, hey girl.” Slowly drawled, as is the idiom.

That long diagonal, from Point A to Point B, also happened to contain Point Me, somewhere in between. And under some hazy delusion I thought myself the receipient of those viscous syllables, and nodded. Three hesitant bobs, ebbing out. Then my limp hand willed itself into a wave, and my lips thawed into a smile, letting slip this chirp:

“Oh, uh—hi!”

Point A eked out a wincing quarter-smile indistinguishable from indigestion, and then her gaze passed smoothly through the trillions of cells of my body, which had suddenly turned translucent. This allowed her to lock eyes with Point B (whose existence I’d never anticipated), completing the intended transaction.

My wrist, still up, wilted. My head resolved to achieve a kind of balance. The two points continued towards each other, firing conversational pings back and forth, a kind of echolocation for the sighted. A phone fortuitously materialized in my left hand, a convenient object into which to pour my gaze. Point B brushed shoulders as she passed and seemed to shudder in so doing.

Point A and Point B converged via hug in the middle of the courtyard and Point Me scurried towards the nearest archway, aborting its previous path. Though I was soon out of sight and earshot they likely lingered in the middle of the courtyard, dissected the awkwardness of that recent exchange, recounted it in graphic detail, returned to their original coordinates in the courtyard to recreate the incident as faithfully as possible, mimicked my meek chirp at the climactic moment, cackled riotously, invoked mild slurs, summoned up strange shapes to describe the balsamic splotch on my skirt napkin-dabbed into irredeemable oblivion, savored their own nuggets of wit, condemned the feral tangle of my hair now enflamed by the April humidity, recreated the entire deed once more, envisioned the contours of my shame and embarassment, retreated back inside their lair, slurped raspberry vodka and sifted through digital impressions of themselves and their ilk, reminding themselves once more before parting ways of the terribly amusing misunderstanding that had brightened their afternoon.


From the best available evidence, this is what actually transpired:

Point A
immediately forgot what had just transpired, exchanged pleasantries in the courtyard, ascended the three flights of stairs to her room, shook off her Barbour, slunk into lime-green Spandex, worried about her job interview and ozone layer, left a physics problem dangling three-quarters of the way towards completion, went to the gym, exerted herself, bathed thoroughly, resolved the physics problem, never thought of me again, dropped a heavy boot onto the roach clattering across the hardwood, brewed and consumed a watery mug of green tea, brushed her teeth, set a reasonable alarm, and tucked herself in.

Point B
immediately forgot what had just transpired, muttered small talk in the couryard, paced the long corridor to her room, shook off her Barbour, urinated in the boys’ restroom due to its proximity, flirted with the toweled water polo player who emerged upon her exit, circuitously beckoned him over to smoke a bowl, skimmed some Borges until arrival, swatted his hand away when necessary, never thought about me again, courteously showed him out of the room, briefly consulted a Spanish-English dictionary, smoked a solitary bowl, fell asleep facedown in an eternally damning pile of pita chip shards.

A Nassau Weekly fortuitously materialized in my left hand, a convenient object into which to pour my Giri Nathan.