accusations

i met a stranger on the train (first-class, one-way, home to paris from amsterdam); an interesting old wealthy man. the things that we talked about disarmed me, unveiled me, & i caught myself saying things i wasn't sure about. he had a small, sinuous frame, dark hair with a side-part that lent him an air of post-war glamour, & spoke several languages comfortably, reasoning that he loved to communicate. we talked about literature & love & philosophies: one of the only things that makes me lose my confidence is being told i have none. when he looked at me i could see he was forming conclusions based on observations & impressions & i felt bare & powerless, heightened by my greasy hair, bags under my eyes, & arms tired from carrying luggage. he said that i was intelligent, which was a curse i was yet to fully understand: that an intelligent woman is one of the most unlucky of people for her standards would make it harder to find happiness. he said women may be intelligent, but will never have the spark that brings them to genius. rather than defending myself, i agreed - his expression of pity & amusement did not change.

he is in paris for the night after a day of meetings; i am meeting him at his hotel by the opera to continue our conversation. he promised jokes, i promised to bathe.