He and his date approached.  We made our introductions as needed.  I didn’t know his date and he didn’t know anyone with me except for Mike.

We tried various kinds of small talk.  I said I thought he’d be part of the Occupy Oakland march to the Port.  He was astonishingly inarticulate.  Not as I remember the old days.

He and his date were seated a couple rows behind us and at the opposite end of the row, so I could catch a glimpse from time to time at his reactions to the play.  Afterwards, waiting for everyone else to clear the room, he passed in front of me.  His date was in the lead and had disappeared.  He seemed unable to move forward, like his shoes were suddenly sticking to chewing gum.  It was dawning on both of us that our season tickets would bring us together on a regular basis.  I tried to be funny, “Hey, Are you stalking me?”  Instead of a laugh (I thought it was hilarious), he stammered and I had to reassure him that I was only joking.  After all, in my current state no one could possibly be stalking me—I had thought that pretty obvious.  All my attempts at levity had fallen down, exactly as I would if it came to standing. 

At last he left.  He dissolved into the crowd beyond us, where I assume, his date was standing impatiently.

It wasn’t until I was strapped in my vehicle ready to head home, that I was reminded that we had rescheduled our tickets—it was not our regular season ticket night.  Everyone around me sighed with relief.  But he wouldn’t know that!

That’s the drama when you write a memoir and the antagonist turns up at the theater.