Two days since I gave my number to the girl upstairs. I paced the landing where our two doors let out for ten minutes before J– took pity on me, knocked for me. When she opened, she was wearing a silk robe and a scarf in her hair; she saw me and looked down at herself as though to say, well, this is how you have found me; and? I didn’t know what to say—it was one of those comedic moments where the head empties itself. At the crucial moment, all my Works decay, and “Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare / The lone and level sands stretch far away.” ¹ She won’t be in touch. I know, because to do so would be too active for the feminine. It would be an explicit admission of interest, and would thereby negate the feminine power of mystery. I know the power of mystery very well. When I told her that it was nice to talk to her, she agreed, and I believed her…I believe her now. But she has other things to do. She is not going to be so forthright in signalling her interest. She can’t—structurally, logically. It makes no rational sense. If she calls me, if she texts me, that would be her activity. She is a woman—she is not going to be the active one, and nor should she. It would be a weak, un-lady-like move, and she’s not weak. I don’t even want her to: I want her to signal passively that she is interested, but I want to be the one to initiate things. I am a man, after all, even if a pathetic and wretched one.

Of course she is not going to call me. The entire structure of civilization—no, but φύσις (physis) itself is against us. It’s not merely that we are neighbours, and therefore there is an inherent risk…but all our meetings are contingent on admitting attraction. I thought there was some admission of attraction when she came into the apartment at 4am and told me her friend had a crush on me—but there remains plausible deniability. At this stage, it would only work to move things along by “accident.” That is the most frustrating aspect of dating: everything must appear “accidental,” as though there are no stakes involved.

I can’t tell if it’s me or the world. I always feel the need for a subterfuge. There needs to be some excuse. A woman will not simply agree to go out with me, just as one does not simply walk into Mordor. She will not simply admit that she is attracted to me, will not concede that she wants to know me and be known by me. There needs to be a pretense—a network of excuses, justifications; otherwise, she makes herself vulnerable. And why would she make herself vulnerable to a stranger? It’s quite frustrating, but I understand it. What I don’t quite understand is how to transcend. This whole discussion is upsetting to me. A woman knows that I am an attractive guy; we have plenty in common. There’s a lot of compatibility. She saw the books, the TV, the red flag, the nice apartment: she knows that I have tastes and interests and probably feels some curiosity to know more about me—just like I am curious to know about her…but “human society is an anti-physis.” Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex, trans. Constance Bord and Sheila Malovany-Chevalier (New York: Vintage Books, 2011), 94.