Several months ago—or I don’t know when it was, really—I had coffee with the Accidental New Yorker and he told me that he always marveled over my “encounters.” That is what he called the things that happen to me that don’t seem to happen to others, usually involving people freaking out or otherwise acting on unfathomable impulses in my presence. On some occasions, I know this happens because I try to be respectful of people that others would just walk by, so I let them do their thing, but other times I don’t have any idea what they’re reacting to. My working theory is that my extraordinary personal reserve creates a vacuum in which other people’s manias seem to flourish. It never occurs to me that people might take my introversion personally or treat getting beyond it as anything more than a game. I am not, after all, very interesting. Everyone knows I hate to talk about myself, and the only reason I ever watch television is so I will have funny anecdotes to share instead of personal revelations.

Inscrutability can be a shield, but it does not protect.

I’m writing this because tonight someone freaked out in my presence, and not just in my presence, but on me. Like it was my fault. And this was not just some random person but a new friend who I thought would become a one of those rare life-long friends. This incident was very dramatic, very sad, and so literally bewildering to me that I had one of those fluttery attacks that I get because of my bizarre heart valve condition. I’m sitting up late, hoping he’ll contact me and explain, but he probably won’t. I did respond to him in a way that was accurate to the letter but not very polite.

Anyway, am I am alien? Great, fine. But what am I not getting here? Take me to your leader.