She works her will

Walking to the dojo as night falls in tall, uneven stripes, observing myself observing myself, performing for an audience of one, of many. Hiking up the straps of my bag, feeling the churn, thresh and patter inside my body. The moon, a hard and tinny disc, covered, uncovered, and then covered again by clouds. Hers is a show of provocation, then modesty, followed by provocation again. A performance, either way, just like mine. Oh, but it must be blasphemy to find fakeness, if not fault, in the moon. It must be even more absurd to pretend at similarity. I imagine her hissing, spit like shooting stars: Who do you think you are? I am trying to remember to take deep but unexaggerated and minimally obtrusive breaths, following an online technique that promised to “hijack my nervous system,” though I am not sure that fighting with my own self is something I desire. Well, I do desire it, but not so obviously. Discreteness, subtlety, these are the cornerstones of artful behavior. And anyway,…