an_encounter tender_square i took my seat at the table, left my bags and my jacket on the floor by my chair. there was a tape dispenser and a pencil on my half. there was plexiglass that split the table in two, her side and my side, and a stack of cards between us with arrows indicating who was to draw when. the instructions were simple. read the dialogue aloud from the cards. follow the actions on the cards when provided. the unnamed woman across from me was in her late fifties or early sixties. she had short grey hair, tousled and wavy, cropped to her chin. she pulled back the curtain of her strands and showed me her left earlobe, double-pierced with a single earring hanging, a clear series of interlocking chain, thick. we gazed from across the table into the masked face of the other. i asked her to imagine what my mouth looked like, to nod when she had the image. i asked her to imagine me missing my front teeth. we placed an index finger against the glass, tips overlapping for many moments, while we traded a series of questions back and forth, only able to supply yes or no answers. - have you broken a heart? - yes. - do you finish what you start? - no. - can you drive a stick shift? - no. - do you like to dance? - yes. - do you sing to yourself? - yes. - do you take vitamins? - no. i showed her my hands, their puckering wrinkles, the dry patches, then turned them over to show the rivers in my sweaty palms. “picture a bird in my hand. picture a hammer.” i made a slow, deliberate fist over the course of 30 seconds. she had perfect, beautiful oval-shaped nails without polish. on her right hand, she wore a big silver ring with a red stone (jasper?) and on the left middle finger, a chunky silver ring with asymmetrical loops in three layers. she asked me to envision her best friend. what her house looked like. “imagine my hometown,” i instructed. “can you see it?” - do you live alone? - no. - are you rich? - no. - are you lucky? - yes. - do you read poetry? - yes. - do you eat fish? - yes. - have you ever been fishing? - yes. she wore round glasses with clear frames. her buttoned blazer was graphic yet sophisticated, a grey and eggplant shweshwe, very worldly. her deep, brown eyes were small but intense, framed by black brows. her eyes reminded me of many people i love. she winked at me with one eye, then the other. i could only wink with my right, laughed when i couldn’t with my left. “imagine the year i was born,” she said. “do you know it?” “imagine me on a train,” i advised. “i’ve missed my stop. imagine me frustrated. can you see it? nod when you can see it.” “imagine me on a boat. it’s a good day for boating, isn’t it?” i nodded. we rocked back and forth in our seats as the sea carried us. - have you ever been hypnotized? - no. - have you ever been in the room when someone has been born? - no. - have you ever been in the room when someone has died? - yes. - do you know how an engine works? - no. - are you good with numbers? - yes. - do you think i voted? - yes. “tell me about the last time you felt joy,” i asked, a moment for her to move off script. “i was in nyc, and it was raining,” she began. “i was walking down the street, it was night and it was warm. i had just been with my mom. and it reminded me of my childhood and i was comforted by the thought.” she showed me the left side of her face and then the right. i showed her the top of my head—did she study the circumference of my perfect bun, the brunette donut hidden beneath? - have you ever been to the opera? - no. - would we like the same music? - no. she squinted at the band buttons on my lapel (the smiths; the jesus and mary chain). one card instructed us to sing a song we knew the words to, a song other than “happy birthday.” i began, “any way you want it, that’s the way you need it!” i belted journey because they were the first words that filled my brain. she tentatively sang, “the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon, little boy blue and the man in the moon.” i joined in, or picked up where she left off: “when you coming home, dad? i don’t know when, but we’ll be together then.” - do you smoke? - no. - do you live with pain? - yes. - have you ever been fired? - yes. - have you committed a crime? - no. - are you ever afraid walking alone at night? - yes. i imagined her driving; she had entered a driveway, she was getting out of the car and running to the door of a house. someone was greeting her, someone was taking her in their arms and kissing her. i witnessed it all with my eyes closed. her hands followed the route i made against the glass, to show the way home (it was to my house, not where i wish to be). our hands made a family, a bowl, a forest, an ‘x,' together. we showed our scars and envisioned how the injuries came about. “i wonder what you think of me,” i stated. another card prompted one of us, or both of us, to yell as loud as we could. i did, alone. pure sound, total release. we listened to the room to note if anyone beyond those walls had heard us; there was so much chatter, we didn’t even register. we went to a party together. “it’s not one of those awkward parties,” she clarified. “even though we both don’t know everyone in the room.” i was standing by the record player, she said, turning up the volume. she was on the couch near the kitchen. the party moved outside to take in a meteor shower. scratch that. it was the full moon. it was cold. the snow was falling. close your eyes. imagine the snow softly falling against your cheeks. imagine the cold on your skin. now open your eyes. “we can see our breath,” i said. “isn’t it…miraculous?” she gave me her arm to keep me from slipping on the snow, since we were all in dress shoes. i thanked her for bracing me, wondered aloud if she would remember my face if we passed on a quiet street. i pulled a card that told me to write my name on it. i cupped my hand around it as i wrote in pencil, capital letters. i fixed a piece of tape to the card, on the wrong side at first and had to right it, stuck the paper against the glass. i waved wordlessly and stood up. the blade of glabellar between her black brows sliced through me. it was a look of concern. (did the card tell her to make that face, or was it genuine?) it was loss. “this is the end of the encounter,” the card told me. “put on your belongings and leave, leave this space and do not come back.” i turned from the table, eyes blurry as i strode away. - are you married? - yes. - do you have kids? - no. “picture me alone,” i’d said. “picture what i’m ashamed of.” nod when you’ve got it. 220310 ... raze this is fucking incredible. 220310 what's it to you? who go blather from