The Man Beside Me

Our evening at the theater began well. We dined on spicy scallops, lamb shanks, and sticky date pudding, perfect fare for the chilly night. Our table looked out over bobbing boats as the sky grew black. We approached Door 2 and settled into our seats, happily speculating about the pre-show music—what might it foreshadow?

When a couple edged past us to take the two seats on my left, I thought nothing of it. What proved unusual was how much space the man beside me colonized.

He shifted constantly. He kept turning toward me to stare at something (what was so fascinating?), making me acutely aware of his too-close face. He photographed the set and the cast, which we were asked not to do. He repeatedly dragged his fingers through his hair, which grew down to his nipples in long matted strands, like a before scene in an ad for industrial-strength detangling cream.

Psychology is my obsession and training and, having overanalyzed myself and everyone I know for decades, I’m convinced all people make sense once you know enough about them. No doubt there were reasons for this man’s obliviousness—perhaps he was on a date, say, and nervous.

At that moment, though, I was focused on making myself as tiny and imperturbable as possible. It has been a lifetime practice and I am very good at it.

Just before the houselights dimmed, he shrugged out of his jacket while remaining seated, a maneuver that forced his elbow, shoulder, and hair into my face. I wanted to elbow him back, hard. But before I could savor this thought, he shoved his jacket, which had landed across the armrest between us, down into my seat.

I want to be clear about this.

He pushed his jacket over the armrest. Against my hip. Into the space where my lap would be, had I not scooched as far toward my husband as possible without mounting my other armrest.

What happened next took me by surprise.

Someone picked up the fabric, returned it to his side of the armrest, and when he looked over, said calmly, Just claiming back some of my personal space. No explaining. No criticizing. No trying to work up the courage to say something for the entire show.

Who was this woman?

I mean, obviously she was me. But my usual tactics for handling intrusive people are the passive-aggressive glare, the clenched jaw, and fantasies of light stabbing—a repertoire refined over many years and one that has never once worked.

The man beside me was unfazed. He mumbled Sorry, then promptly resumed fidgeting, gawking, and elbowing me to play with his hair.

But I had my seat back. And I admired that woman. I’d like to be her more often.