I got all dressed up, in my low-slung long red skirt and tight black shirt that has the lowest square neck and mid-palm length flared sleeves, leaving a ribbon of my middle bare, which seemed like a risk—and I let myself worry that it was a risk, as though it would appear forced and like I wasn't sure of my attractiveness, just like those women you see dressed for sexy but instead appearing awkward in ill-fitting clothes. Well, I worked my hair, too, and painted my eyes and eyelashes, and of course, incarnadined my lips. I felt like art you'd display under light to engage its form, yes, but its meaning, too, intellectually and whimsically. I thought we would be a gallery together like that, pieces arranged for inquiry.

Instead, it was like prom night. Children dressed like adults, posturing for attention with worn-out anecdotes of narcissistic feats. They were blind and destructive in it and I was invisible, but not spared.