At the end of the lecture, a buffet opens. I suck the figues while looking at him. He’s not that hot, but he’ll do. He seems afraid of the daring attitude. I think for a second that my reputation as a young-trying-to-be intellectual in this city is at risk if I give away myself too easily. But I have a book to write, and I have always been really terrible at coming up with fiction. To experience the real is the only way I have found to be able to write or create. A sort of proof-of-concept to getting to know myself better, as my astrologist said.

Sat on the hills, he exposes how, in his experience, emotional connection and sex separate. I can’t help but wonder if that is part of his pre-digested education as a man, or if I have been oh-to-well raised to think that sex only happens in a hetero-normative radioactive family. Surely, dating and being intimate with women sounded more reassuring and less haunting than chasing intimacy with men. There lie our differences of opinion. I observed in silence this recent idea, melting in the depth of me.