I’m at the opening of an art exhibition in San Francisco. Someone introduces me to a friend of a friend, a backcombed lady around 70 in a black cocktail dress. Instinctively, I smile and lean in, because this is what one does. My body moves before my brain catches up.
I go left. She goes right. Or she freezes. Or she extends a hand that hovers midair like a failed peace offering. For a brief, excruciating second, our foreheads—and worse, our lips—nearly collide. In that suspended moment, I realize: the double cheek kiss does not travel well.
