There were widespread fears that the pandemic would spell the end of physical contact. It wasn’t a tragedy for everyone. Those of us who were conscious of safe distancing before the term became commonplace enjoyed solitary elevator rides like a business flight; Personal space was no longer a kingdom to be conquered daily and no one desecrated our cheeks. The alarm went away and the orgy of kisses and hugs returned.
Cortázar gave instructions in Rome to cry, sing and even kill ants, but he did not teach us the art of avoiding kisses, there are no instructions to defend ourselves against a socially blessed microaggression to which we are born are damned. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to counter them with moves that would earn Houdini applause, but there are always pros who resort to a foolproof technique: They grab your forearm and pull you close to their body, like John Wayne did in The Quiet Man, except you I don’t live a passionate romance in Ireland.
I recognize this defensive threat especially in women, we are more prone to suffering it, and always without notice, which is still worrying. It’s normal to ask a dog owner if they can be touched, but no one questions whether it’s appropriate to kiss someone you’ve just met. It goes without saying that we all welcome the closeness of strangers, and those who reject it are viewed with suspicion. I thought about that as I watched the national team players collect their medals even before the incident that has been talked about all the time took place. I wondered if any of them would live the hell it would be for me, I’m sure: the defense of personal space knows no race, ideology, gender or age, just the certainty that we are bound to fail are convicted.
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