Socially: I assume this is possible? You hear things. And if you’ve ever been to a bar, you’ve seen them: groups of charming, attractive people, mingling together with cocktails in hand, laughing with their whole faces. Sometimes there’s touching. They order strange drinks. They are always friends with the band, and no one minds when they dance during the slow slongs. We hate them. We hate their comfortable ease, their conversation, and their eyes and noses and mouths which align with a vicious, pleasing symmetry. We’ve talked about getting together just to exchange notes on how much we hate them, maybe going for coffee later, but our schedules never line up right, and it’s just so hard to find the time. But we hate them.

Public Events: Auditions are tonight. You should come. It will be an empowering experience, provided you are willing to change everything about yourself. Change is good. You’re always saying how you want to get back into it. Remember how you were in college? So full of energy and possibilities and not too much vomit. Here’s your chance. Here’s your chance to get back out there. You look fine. You’ve matured, and that’s great. No one cares about your ankles. You can always wear a hat. Talent doesn’t atrophy. It just waits, lingering. It hungers. It needs to be fed. Think of all the new friends who will drop their cues. Think of the laughs you’ll miss. Think of the awkward possibilities of that kissing scene. I mean, how long has it been, really? You should relax. The roles have already been assigned. Your lines are being prepared. It’s not a bad part, if you like that sort of thing. It could’ve been worse. Some of them don’t even have names. Wear comfortable clothes. Be prepared to move.

Eye contact: Walking through the mall one afternoon I saw you going the other way–were you leaving the bookstore? The one that replaced the one that closed, where the clerks are all the same but they’re more polished, I mean, like, literally polished. Everything they say sounds like it’s being read out of a dictionary. Yeah, it’s great. But I saw you, and my heart stopped. No, not literally. But my heart did probably skip a beat or two, and at the very least, I felt a sudden, irrevocable jerk somewhere in the center of my chest. I looked at you. I couldn’t stop looking. This was inappropriate. It’s not that you were perfect; perfection is an impossibility in our temporal, compromised world. But you were so wonderfully and exactly you, and your clothes, and your haircut, and even the way you walked, which was purposeful but not excessively forceful, a walk that suggests adventures have and will continue to happen to this person. It was as if my life had been leading to a moment. I couldn’t stop looking, and when you passed out of my field of vision, I changed direction, and I followed you. Again, this was inappropriate. It was inappropriate when I followed you out of the mall and into the parking lot. Night had fallen, and the cars shone under electric light like the shells of giant insects. I followed you to your car. The doors were unlocked. I climbed into the passenger seat and buckled my safety belt. We did not speak. You drove us home, and all the while, I considered the delicate tremor of your eyelashes. The house we came to was the house I grew up in. We’re married now. We’ve always been married. I no longer recognize my reflection. Send help.

Live Music: Gosh, this is loud. Is it supposed to be this loud? It’s great, though. Really. I love them. I have all of their albums. Well, no, not that one. Not that one. Did you say–no, not that one. It’s the one with the dancing cat on the cover. It’s great. I think it’s them. I love this song. I’ve never heard it, but I love it. The loudness is great. It’s really great. Would it be okay if I–no? Right. Right, that’s fine. Yeah, I’m just really getting into it. I don’t have a lot of space here, though. Wait, I think I do know this song. It’s just, on the record, the solo part is only half a minute, and this just seems to–yes, he’s very talented. My feet hurt. I SAID MY FEET HURT. I’m going to sit down. For my feet. I don’t need to see the stage the whole time, that’s fine. I’ll trust they’re there. Ah. Ah, all right, that was, no, please, it’s okay, I know you weren’t trying to spill your drink on me. Okay, that time you were, though. I’ll stand up again. There, I’m standing up, and my feet still hurt, and now I’m wet all over. Sir, that is my face. Sir, that is my face where you are putting your elbow, and I’d really appreciate it–Sir, I did not bite your elbow. That was not my intention. I will have you know that I am not a biter. I’d appreciate if you’d stop looking at me that way. I’m sensing some hostility, and I have to tell you, if my child was involved, I’d be happy to have an outsider attending performances. None of you understand the true spirit of show choir.

Online: I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been reading this. Don’t be alarmed. I’m not watching you. I was thinking, though. Maybe this could go somewhere. I have been published on the Internet. You could check out my Twitter feed. If you follow me, I’ll follow you. I’m sure we have a similar sense of humor. We’ll keep it light at first. Banter about TV shows, mention semi-obscure authors–I’ve been back into Fowles lately, would you say his work is inspired by du Maurier? We’ll both hate that movie everyone loves. Eventually, I’ll send you a private message. It will be innocuous. Your reply will be non-committal. For a few days, I’ll wonder if I’ve made a mistake, but then you’ll favorite my joke about Howard The Duck and I’ll send you another private message. The conversation will become more intense. Flirtation will ensue. I’ll give you my e-mail address. You’ll write to me about gardening. I’ll send you a short story I’m working on; you’ll read it overnight, and your comments in the morning will be thoughtful and incisive. We’ll both exchange photographs, and feel guilty about being slightly disappointed. There will be phone calls. Tentatively, we’ll discuss meeting. I’ll offer to fly to wherever you are, because this is romantic. The day arrives, and I won’t have slept, and I’ll spend the whole flight trying to be better looking. We’ll see each other across the airport, and it will be fine. Wonderful, even. The week will pass in a blur, and I’ll go home confident I’ve made the right decision. This is what it’s all about. We’ll stay in touch. After a few months, you’ll come out to see me, and it’s just as fine, just as wonderful. It’s the last time we’ll see each other. There will be no catastrophes. No heartbreak. It may take a week, or a month, or a year, but in the end, it won’t work. We’ll say it’s the distance, but we’ll both wonder. We’ll wonder how you can love someone and not miss them when they’re gone. The calls will end. The e-mails will stop. You’ll unfollow me on Twitter, and I’ll think about how ridiculous that phrase is. I’ll say “never again,” although I won’t know why. I’ll see the outside window reflected on my computer screen. There’s so much to look at, but the window is closed.

Kendra Wells is a cartoonist and illustrator living in Brooklyn. She likes beer, rap music and cute animals, and is most well-known for accidentally creating an internet meme in art school and drawing fan art of terrible television shows.