In late 1989, I went by myself to a mall movie theatre to see Dead Poets Society. I was between relationships (a baseline state for me) and had taken to occasionally going out by myself. It felt freeing to do so without feeling as though I had to have a friend or a date to go with me. I had just started back to college after an 11-year hiatus and had recently changed my major from mathematics to English literature. (I was destined for medical school, but had read and believed the propaganda from medical schools that they were looking for diversity and preferred that applicants not be pre-med or even STEM majors.)
The film had some relevance to my life at the time, and I enjoyed it. As I was leaving the theatre, shuffling along with the mob, a woman caught my eye. She had a puzzled or startled look on her face, and I imagine I did too. We locked eyes for what seemed like a long time — five or six seconds — before her friends called to her and she turned to go with them. That was our entire encounter.
I’ve thought of that moment often in the decades since. Did she know me? Was she actually looking at someone/something else over my shoulder? Would she remember the encounter? I sure do: she was wearing a long-sleeve jersey-knit top with broad horizontal stripes and overalls or suspenders. She had mid-length dark hair. And I can’t help but think that if I’d had the presence of mind to say something, even something banal like “you wanna get a coffee and talk about the film?”, my life might have taken an adventuresome turn.
—2p