Seal The Womb

I once spent the end of the night dancing with an attractive Iraqi girl named Gada. It was purely platonic and nothing more came of it. I had never seen her before and will never see her again. All memories should be so pure.

Today we would have added each other as friends on Facebook. We would have seen each other's profiles and realized we had nothing in common. We would have destroyed the finality of perfectly sealed memory by exchanging disappointing details: and for what?

To some attractive Iraqi girl named Gada I was a charming young man free of the sort of overanalysis you see before you. To me Gada was a rare reminder of feminine benevolence unencumbered by the accoutrements of modern social reality: no irony, no poses, no assumptions.

Why must we push against one another until we feel resistance? Why can't we disengage before the ugliness sets in? Awkward grasping for further contact spoils the perfect balance we had. Sometimes the warm place between stranger and friend is a womb best left sealed.