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He was male. That could be discerned by the angular shape of his biceps where his sleeves were rolled up. His hair was close-cropped and black as obsidian. His eyes were that pale iridescent grey that lightning makes against the sky at the edge of night. He was quite tall. His nose was straight, and a bit large. Every feature of this man was compelling, he appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. His face was shadowed by a beard that gave the effect of a few days growth. I ventured to guess he did not wear a watch as I could not see any markings about his wrist. He possessed a certain stoic, almost monastic calm. He did not look at me, and did not appear to be curious about me. The effect to the general public was akin to a ruddy Irishman, with a long history in the city. Perhaps an older gentleman visiting from London.
As we spoke in the back of the room, he listened closely, his head tilted slightly, his expression open and interested. As we conversed for a while, I was distracted by an intriguing simile from his lips. He said he had somehow become accustomed to a certain quality of mathematics--it was an interesting idea--through a kind of immersion where there was pain and pleasure mixed in as one. There was an underlying tension between beauty and the not-so-pleasant, a profound guilt and lie. To me, he said it is good to keep the pain and pleasure apart, but the pain is just there without the experience of pleasure to mask it. As if the two are separate and working together to create something beautiful. So that when the pleasure comes the pain can be forgotten, it is not part of the conscious memory. That it is therefore possible to live without experience of the pain.
He continues to speak of this subconscious muse of sorts. And I am talking with him as if he is a keeper of secrets, or a magician.
His voice is low. His intonation delightful, melodic, rolling. He does not pause to breathe, it flows out from his mouth with the music of speech, pausing only when one laughs. The litheness of the words like a dark, lolling sea.
Then he stops.
He looks at me as if noticing me for the first time. He recognizes me from across the room.
I couldn't believe it and said it out loud.
He said "What was that?"
I smiled and laughed--I could not help myself--I said "I will tell you later."
And then I walked slowly, albeit not very far as in the backroom everyone is asleep--the event is late. I looked at my dress again and chuckled softly--I wondered if the host was in bed and if he was thinking of me. He had that gorgeous accent--a Kind of Irish English or perhaps Texan. It would not be confusing--which is an odd thought and I chuckle softly again. Then I turn towards the front door, and feeling strange I take a breath and then run outside. A man has my purse--I throw myself down on the ground and knee in his stomach as he makes to run. I yell at him "Stay still. Give me my purse."
He gives me my purse and then I see the speaker; and there is also another man, stooped over the front of the building, a shadowy figure. I yell out to the speaker who looks down and yells that he is going to help me. I am already on the ground. I am on the ground staring at the speaker and can see the speaker’s pallor. I can see the speaker’s eyes beyond the blood running down on my forehead. He lifts me on his shoulder and continues to stay there after I am standing. He says "You're bleeding."
I say "I punched a man." I say "I should have gone outside when you first came over."
He says "There were three of us right outside over there. And the one inside was standing in the door watching you come up to the podium. He did not punch you. You did that yourself."
I was not sure what he was saying. I am quite dizzy--I feel faint, confused. I have blood running down my forehead--I squeeze his arm. I am not sure why I do that.
He holds my arm and leads me back inside. I am quite unsteady. I am not bleeding too much, but I don't look good at all. Everyone is staring--not in a way that says "Ugh, she's injured," but in a way that says "Who is she?"--a studied judgment.
I feel embarrassed. I want to go home. I have said too much. I am cold. I am thirsty. I need to sit down.
He leads me up the stairs.
I am not saying anything. I am just going up the stairs. At the landing I stop because I am dizzy. He helps me sit. We are in the bedroom of my apartment--I am sitting on the bed. I am not bleeding anymore--I don't know why--I realize I apologize.
He says "You don't need to apologize. You need to rest."
I say "Thank you."
He says "I should check you over. Stay here."
He goes to the kitchen. He gets some gauze and some alcohol. Then I feel better and tell him to leave. I tell him that I am shy, that I don't feel well, that I am just a girl, and then I go into the hallway. I am not looking forward to telling him the truth next time I see him. I can hear him in the kitchen and I stop.
I hear him say "What?" I walk down the hallway and meet him by the front door. He looks at me for a minute and says "You'll be fine. You need the gauze for the cut, I think you'll be okay."
I thank him and say "I can go to the pharmacy."
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