2024-04-04 - 2:17 p.m.

an entry from a paper diary, two years ago.

charleston, february 2002.

i went into the alley. i made a friend. i asked him to visit. we walked on the beach. we said goodbye.

q: why were you in the alley?
a: i could not stay in the shop. there were too many people, colors, noises. too many smells. it was too bright.

lately, i've been having more and more trouble with people. i encounter so few people beyond my family, and many of these encounters are bad. old men say gross things to me when i am out with my children. if i mention i am a stay-at-home mother, people begin to treat me as if i am very stupid and perhaps try to sell me a pyramid scheme. people with whom i connect over a shared interest begin to spew abhorrent politics.

i have trouble with people. it's not only the confrontation of noise and odors, but i'm also suspicious of them. i'm sure it shows on my face.

q: how did you manage to make a friend, then?
a: as best i can recall, i blundered into an alley and slid down the wall. he was a nice person who checked to see if i were okay.

this man smelled like menthol cigarettes and snowdrops. something along those lines. we talked about anxiety, how we live with it. he reminded me of friends i do not have anymore. he had a nice voice. he did not come too close. he did not ask me for money.

q: why was your new friend in the alley?
a: prostitution, apparently.

q: did you really expect him to join you at the beach?
a: not at all. we were planning to be there so early in the morning, and i'm so used to being ghosted. but there he was, wearing the same clothes from the night before, trying to light a cigarette against the wind at public beach access 5E.

in the alleyway, in the white-knuckled way one must sometimes notice things, i'd noticed how well this man's clothing fit and flattered. a slim blazer over a graphic t-shirt, tobacco-colored jeans, and - cheeky detail! - bright striped socks with boat shoes. in daylight, these garments were visibly worn and a little bit stained. he was younger than i'd noticed, earlier.
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like little sandpipers in yellow slickers and rain boots, my children skitter back and forth at the edge of the water. "i have the shark tooth magic, mommy! look! i found another one!" my new friend has some interests that overlap with mine. we talk about the apophatic tradition for a little while. when we say goodbye, he hugs me like my son did when he smashed his face on a rock. like a little kid who got hurt.

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