Cities teem with strangers, of course, so it should not have surprised me at all to be among so many strange bodies last night. Bodies unlike yours, of course, J., despite the light that they emitted, for they lacked that familiar warmth, the heat that your skin makes when it brushes against mine in darkness, bound to my own warmth by a trust forged during winter.

Jolyne's group show - >>Noisemakers<< - was at Monarch Scooters, which was too well-lit, especially after an hour of watching short films in intimate darkness. There were as many scooters as people who would probably consider themselves as the trend-setters of the City - graphic designers, photographers, editors, stylists, coiffeurs and coiffeuses. They gossiped and preened, and I would have found the sight raw-ther charming, because I like to watch the pretty people, too, but tonight, it all seemed too much, too much laughter, too much gossip, too many glances cast coyly, too many distracting sartorial details, like fishnets, pointy shoes, sashes that flickered across the floor like the tongues of snakes, slashed necklines.

Violent fashion, yes, and not enough dark corners to soothe one's eyes and not enough beer to soothe one's nerves. R. remarked, "Phil, you're being so emo tonight!" I shrug, my cold hands compulsively searching for inexistent coat pockets into which to burrow deeply.

After such a lovely hibernation, I had emerged gropingly, like a mermaid out of her deep briny blue or a bear out of its skin. Clumsy and speechless, breathing unfamiliar air, in elephantine spicy gulps that could choke, if you foolishly forgot the survival skills that had been accrued in more dangerous times. Politeness had been a rare occurrence in the past four months, for I had forgotten how to measure the distance between myself and other bodies, after giving/having so much of mine/yours. Where does the distance occur between you and I, this thing we have so thoroughly called us?

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