It’s not that it never happens, and yet it remains a rarity that the Fighter and I find ourselves at an exhibition together—especially when it’s a noteworthy event, conveniently taking place right next door to her boyfriend’s. I arrived with the Homeless One, and, as always, we exited the taxi a few meters before the entrance. Honestly, we look too poor to afford such transport—or rather, that’s the image we want to project.If I could rearrange the timeline, I would put the following detail right at the start: The Fighter and I are waiting for the next taxi (also ordered to a side street) because we need to get to another party. As we wait, she says she understands why this kind of networking is important. I didn’t reply. Instead, I took that thought with me into the car. The truth is, my face had been pressed against countless others that evening, though I must admit, I’ve never approached anyone myself.Sitting in the car, I thought about exactly that. Why did people approach me in the first place? Not that they’ve stopped—they’re still always the initiators—but initially, I thought it was the general novelty of a new toy. Sitting in the car, I realized, no, honestly, everyone just tried their luck.And then one of my first memories of this circle came to mind. There was once this composer—an intelligent man—who spoke of one of his romantic interests. He said, “Everyone tries to woo her because there aren’t many stereotypical women in this field.” I never thought that idea would embed itself so deeply. But as the rain dripped down the car window, I thought: no, no. I was never part of it. I was always apart—a possession, meant to feel a sense of belonging somewhere in the future.It’s not that I wasn’t aware of my presence. It’s just that I didn’t want it. Maybe it’s because I don’t really make art, except for telling stories. And, believe me, nothing pairs better than a man with big ears and a woman who supposedly has something to say.Then this happened: The Fighter and I reached our destination. She had surely forgotten the topic by then. But I said, “Fighter, isn’t it kind of strange?” And she replied, “Why? The power is entirely yours.”Perhaps she and I are further apart in this field than I thought. Because, honestly, I was thinking: What am I supposed to do with this sexual freedom if it doesn’t grant me artistic stability? Sure, there’s the filmmaker standing over there, thinking his search for cinema is more important than anything else. But the thing is, the filmmaker believes he needs an accessory. And because he’s unaware of the inequality, it makes perfect sense for him to seek a following at such events. Let’s be honest—there’s never been a more explicitly staged dating market.Well, it’s taken me until now to fully grasp the extent of it. I said “hello” sixteen times that evening, introducing the Fighter along the way—that’s why I kept count. You see, it loses its charm when you’re only telling someone about your hallucinations, the other person dives in, but clearly keeps in mind that they’ll wake up from it later.So, here we are: It’s not the time to test boundaries or shout slogans. Because anyone honest in this conversation would note that the voice is hoarse. And yet, once again, my naivety has caught me off guard. In the end, it was my own realization that did me in. I think that’s why people drink at openings—not in moderation, but entirely out of control.