You walk past and… well, okay, let’s say you even leave. You’ll be back. The script doesn't matter. What matters are these sensations. This rising hunger for tactile sensations of all kinds, this throbbing in my temples from causeless sexuality, this ultrasound piercing my eardrums. 

I see that goose. He’s a goose. He can’t drive out the passion that took root in me before the second coming, but he can definitely piss me off. I can’t tell him to screw off because he’s my advisor’s best friend. I mean, I *do* have to finish my dissertation sometime! For some reason, he likes me.

He's coming towards me. He's walking along that glass wall that won't let you near me.

If a man needs to pass someone in a narrow hallway where a proud stride is impossible, he’ll usually turn sideways, facing the person, back to the wall. A woman does the opposite. But not if the person coming is Associate Professor Dopfelheimer. You have to constantly watch his movements. Tactile sensations, in his eyes, are purely for consumption. 

He teaches “Consumer Behavior Theory.” He’s a guru of the consumer mindset, a pro when it comes to consumption. All he does is consume. They say: America is a country of people born to consume. Bullshit. That's how it seems to me. I think Americans are born to sell. Peter Drucker would back me up. Associate Professor Dopfelheimer—he's like a priest. Takes on people's sins. He's the king of consumption. But only the seller benefits from him. Right?

You should see him walk past you. You shrewdly betray your instinct and turn to face him. The tables really are packed tight. No kidding. But you should see how the edges of your clothes brush against the edges of his, how they gently and helplessly yield to deformation. That’s why men and women have different-directional zippers! The edges of clothes. Cotton, tweed, suede. No, they don’t reveal anything. That’s not his thing. They create friction. The friction of your clothes, the friction of your body, a rustle bordering on ultra-rustle. The whisper of your doubts, the whisper of his fantasies.

You remember that? Try to say you don't! Dopfelheimer. A fifty-year-old boar with nothing written on his forehead except that he’s…

One, two, second. Boar, priest, Dopfelheimer. What’s the main thing?

His fingers. Each one as thick as my forearm. They barely bend. They’re even redder than his face. They slash at your stomach, your thigh. These are completely asexual touches; they only seem lecherous. Lust—that’s a word he doesn’t understand. Demand—that’s clear. Supply—a hazy outline, a vague roundness of lips. He can’t grasp it. He breathes on you and thinks you’ve passed each other successfully. He did all this without any ulterior motive. Honestly. He didn’t even realize his actions could be seen as a claim or harassment. That’s how it seems to me. And yet—he D.I.D. it. He’s a tactile guy too, just like me, but he’s also a boar. He’s completely innocent in this little scene, pressing against you and exploring the force of sliding friction. However, that doesn’t diminish his…

Boar, ulterior, motive. Lust, supply, demand. What’s the main thing?

He passes through the glass wall I was ready to touch with my inflamed skin, burnt by your ultraviolet. He presses the chair next to mine into the Earth’s center so hard its legs nearly sink into the floor tiles like a knife through butter. He greets me. He asks, “Have you ordered anything yet?” I lose my voice. I don’t know what to say. The first thing he needs to figure out is demand. Only then—supply. Only then will he open the menu and, ten seconds later, slam it shut on the waitress with a crash. That crash—it’s the victorious cannonade of the consumer army. Consumers of kilograms and square meters, consumers of kilometers and Celsius degrees, consumers of tactile sensations. Vulgar people. That’s how it seems to me. Consumers of sausage and pistachios, of Hungarian pepper & tomato stew and fish fillets, of nightstands and cannons, of oil and artificial grass, of women’s bodies and rolled steel, of wildfowl and used mufflers.