They say a picture is worth a thousand words, we'll give you 500. Half a Picture.

We’re not such active participants, you and I. Although we do go to the gatherings. The rooms – for we gather in different halls, different places, we are always moving – the rooms are always set up like it is an AA meeting; maybe that is what we want them to think. It isn’t an AA meeting. There’s Kool-Aid in a jug, or a vase (depending on what room we’re in. Each room seems to be equipped with a different kind of pitcher), and bland store-bought cookies, which are usually vanilla-flavored. We sit down somewhere, choosing random chairs, sometimes together we sit, and sometimes apart. The chairs are always plastic, no matter what room we are in. Their colors differ; white and green and blue are the prominent ones, though of course, there are others. We usually get there first, because I am punctual, and because you like to look at “the lay of the place”. I understand that to mean that you like looking at the uncovered legs of the women who file in, sometimes alone, sometimes together, sometimes with men. You like to look at the back of their legs, how their skirts slowly rise up as they reach for a plastic cup for the Kool-Aid, because the table is wide, backed up against the white stark wall, and the white plastic cups are hard to reach. I look to see if the men’s legs are as promiscuous, following your example; but no. There is only a rustling of the creases of the pants, the different kinds of fabrics playing with the glaring fluorescent lights.
So, we have gathered. This is no AA, there are no confessions, only accusations. You listen to the words that are said, I listen to the tone, the inflections. I watch the spittle rise out of the speakers’ mouths, and descend quickly in an arch-shaped movement to the ground, or maybe onto one of the listeners (if they are listening. Maybe they are just sitting). When we get home we will exchange information, though it will not be a fair exchange. You will fill me in on what I have missed; you will know that I haven’t been listening. I listen to you, because I cannot only follow the musicality of your voice, its deceptive softness, because you will leave me, because I will be lost. So I listen. The words you use are grand, big, bold. I see, as I listen to you, the speaker, dressed in a general’s outfit, with eyes of red. The spittle is now draining from his lips, downwards, and he is speaking, in your voice, of what is right, and what is wrong. When you are done, a silence settles down between us, and we wait for it to pass. I turn on the heater, warming my hands in the glow of the red metallic coils. You want something of me; oh, the march; no, I will not go.
You will go (suddenly you are an active participant) and you will be comforted by the masses, the noise, the smells. Someone told me, once, that the hot-dog stands stay open as usual, even though you are marching through the streets, even though so many others have taken cover. And that every so often a marcher will suddenly stop chanting, and reach for his wallet, and pull out a dollar, and buy a hot-dog. Not you, though. You are still at the gathering, when you march. Not on the street, not in you, as your body screams slogans and your mouth chants words.

When you come home the house will be spotless. And when you start to cry, I’ll pour you a shot of whisky, and then put you to bed, and hold you until you sleep.