"I'm tired of my clothes," I said to my wife, coming home from the gallery opening.
Around me, the artists had looked glossy with purpose, their bodies sturdy as tripods.
I'd made my way through the maze for a glass of whatever was being poured
at the back table, clutching my coat close. I'd not dressed for the part I was hoping to play,
somewhere between fitting in and standing out, and I realized, mid-sip of a too-sweet
Chardonnay, I was always aiming my sights to this strange middle distance, caught
in a perennially swinging door of visibility and concealment, and I stood there,
juggling a tippy plastic cup and a heavy-gauge scarf as the lights blazed down.
Outside, winter was repeating itself, too, but it still it made its way into every conversation,
fresh from its long hibernation and looking sharper than ever.