She asked why I was being weird and I said
"I’m not being weird.
You’re being weird."
She begged to differ,
looking at me
like I was the crazy-eyed lust-struck incontinent stalker
which,
while technically true,
is not the only way to interpret the state of affairs.

She had no clear evidence
after all
to support the supposition
that I was acting off.
She had experienced no base-line behavior.
to prove that the me she was currently seeing
was not the real me.
She didn’t even know my real name
– though that was not a fact
I was at that moment ready to share.

"Whatever, Henri" she said,
shaking head,
trying to get away from me.
She was moving so fast,
she tripped over the Styrofoam hookers I’d dropped
when entering the room.
Let me tell you.
she looked really weird when she did it.