Introduction to "Comings and Goings – The Art of Being Seen"

© 2025 Alex Diaz-Granados

 Introduction to "Comings and Goings – The Art of Being Seen"

An Invitation to the Threshold

In the hush before the noise, in the moments when solitude threads itself through the fabric of a crowded room, there is a peculiar clarity—a quiet awareness of one’s place among the swirling energies of others. Comings and Goings – The Art of Being Seen begins at just such a threshold; it is a story that drifts between the spaces of belonging and isolation, where the act of observation becomes its own form of participation. This excerpt introduces a narrator more attuned to the subtle rhythms of connection than the cacophony of spectacle, a character for whom the art of being seen is as much about gentle presence as it is about silent withdrawal.

Here, memory unfurls in time with music and laughter, coloring the present with the pastel shades of a spring evening in 1984. The scene—alive with the vivid details of denim, perfume, and restless conversation—invites us to consider how true visibility is found not in the glare of a party’s spotlight, but in the private landscapes of reminiscence, longing, and discovery. Within the press of bodies and the pulse of basslines, the narrator stands apart, searching for an anchor and meaning, poised on the verge of an encounter that promises to redraw the boundaries of self and other.

In the pages that follow, the art of being seen is revealed as both a question and a journey—one that traces the comings and goings of people, moments, and emotions, and asks what it truly means to be noticed, known, and remembered.

 

I’ve never been much of a party animal.

Probably never will be. It’s not that I have anything against parties or the people who throw them—they’re fine, really. Sometimes they’re even fun, given the right circumstances. But me? I’m the kind of guy who always ends up in the quieter corner, nursing a drink and hoping nobody expects me to do the Macarena.

It’s not that I dislike people. I like them. I like conversations that don’t require shouting over a bassline or decoding through strobe lights. And it’s not like I have an aversion to fun—I just tend to find mine in a good book or a playlist that doesn’t involve a DJ screaming, “Everybody clap your hands!” every fifteen minutes. You could say I’m more of a gather-with-friends kind of guy than a party-animal type, and honestly, I’m fine with that.

There’s something funny about the way memories work—they sneak up on you when you least expect them, triggered by the smallest things. Tonight, the faint rhythm of laughter from a neighbor's balcony and the distant thrum of music brought me back to a spring evening in 1984, when I found myself at a party I never should have attended, surrounded by people whose energy felt worlds apart from mine.

I had been there for over an hour—long enough for my Budweiser to go warm, long enough to realize I had made a mistake. It wasn’t just the temperature that bothered me; Budweiser had never been my beer of choice, its metallic aftertaste lingering unpleasantly with each sip.

The apartment was somewhere near Kenmore, just close enough to campus for students to justify the trip, just far enough that I couldn’t slip out unnoticed without a ride. The space was too small for the number of bodies packed into it, the walls vibrating with every bass drop. Twisted Sister blared, fists pumped, and the air smelled like cheap beer and too many clashing perfumes.

It was 1984, unmistakably so—Jordache and Calvin Klein jeans hugged long legs, paired with pastel tees, Harvard sweatshirts, or blouses that shimmered slightly in the dim lighting. Some girls wore their hair big—carefully styled into perfect waves—while others let theirs fall straight and sleek. The guys were a mixed bunch. A few clung to longish late-‘70s cuts, holding onto an era just barely past; others kept their crewcuts sharp, the kind of clean-cut presence that screamed ROTC. Some went for the middle ground—short, conservative styles, neatly in place.

Most of them were either rowdy or lucky enough to be paired off—dancing, swaying in time, or pressed into corners, lost in whispered conversations or half-hearted make-outs.

I scanned the crowd, searching for familiarity, for someone I might recognize besides the one guy I knew from English Comp II—but he was tucked away in a dark corner, wrapped up in his girlfriend and completely oblivious to the rest of the room.

No anchor. Just noise and bodies and me, wedged against a wall, sipping a beer I didn’t even like.

I had staked out a spot early, leaning against the wall like some reluctant observer of the chaos, sipping at my beer without enthusiasm, watching the movements of the night unfold around me.

Then, she slipped into my periphery, her presence registering before I fully processed it.

I had just resigned myself to another ten minutes of standing against the wall when she appeared beside me, moving into my orbit with the kind of quiet confidence that didn’t demand space—it just fit.

Blonde, tall, effortlessly poised—long hair falling past her shoulders, freckles softening sharp cheekbones. Her blue eyes flicked toward me, just briefly, assessing with an ease that suggested she’d already read the room and found me the easiest puzzle to solve.

“You’re not having a good time, are you?”

Her voice, touched with amusement but not unkind, carried a soft lilt, warm and measured, like the kind that poured over you slow, with a trace of honeyed charm. It wasn’t teasing—it lingered just on the edge of playful, without tipping over.

I exhaled, tipping my beer slightly, forcing a half-hearted shrug. “The party’s fine,” I said, knowing full well I wasn’t selling it. “Could be better if the beer wasn’t terrible.”

She arched a knowing brow, her lips pulling into something close to a smirk. “That’s a nice story, but I’m not buying it. I mean, Bud is horse piss, basically, but I’m good at reading body language. And yours has ‘I’m not having a good time’ written all over it.”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, feeling the heat creep up the back of my neck. I’d never been good at pretending, but her presence sharpened that flaw like a spotlight.

My fingers tightened slightly around my beer, then relaxed. I kept my gaze steady on hers—not too intense, not wandering, just focused, the way I’d always been taught was polite.

“Okay, fine,” I admitted, the words exhaling on a breath of reluctant honesty. “I don’t really know anyone here except this guy from English Comp II. But he’s off in one of the dark corners with his girlfriend, so…” I let the sentence trail off, the implication hanging between us.

She studied me for a beat, then tipped her head slightly, blue eyes catching just enough of the dim light to sharpen her focus.

“You wince every time the bass slams in like it owes you a debt,” she said, lips curling just enough to suggest amusement. “And you keep looking toward the door—like you’re calculating the best time to make a quiet exit.”

I inhaled slowly, shifting my beer in my hand, but she wasn’t finished.

“You’ve got this posture—beer held like it’s some kind of shield, shoulders just a little too stiff, like you’re bracing rather than relaxing.” She gave a small shrug, easy, observant. “And when people talk near you, you nod, maybe even smile, but it never reaches your eyes. Like you’re just hitting the minimum social requirement.”

I felt the heat creep a little higher along my neck, though I wasn’t sure why.

“And then there’s the fact that you’ve been standing here alone for an hour,” she added, as if delivering the final piece of evidence. “Either you’re running a fascinating psychological experiment, or you really don’t want to be here.”

“I thought I wanted to be here,” I admitted, shifting slightly, hearing how unconvincing it sounded even as I said it. “I dunno... it’s partly the beer, I suppose. But I hoped the music would be, you know, a bit more varied.”

She gave me a curious look. “Varied how?”

I gestured toward the speakers, where Twisted Sister was still rattling the walls. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—I like rock. Just not the kind that makes you feel like you’re getting barked at by a drill sergeant on his third round of whiskey. Give me Billy Joel, Elton John, ABBA, The Beatles… hell, I’d take ‘Fernando’ over this noise any day.”

She smiled. “That’s refreshingly honest.”

I shrugged. “What can I say? I appreciate a melody.”

She took a sip from her drink—something in a plastic cup, probably just as uninspiring as my Bud—and glanced back at me with mild amusement. “So, you’re trapped in a party with bad beer and worse music. That explains a lot.”

I let out a small laugh, feeling just a little less awkward now. “Yeah, well. You seem to be handling it better than I am.”

“That’s debatable,” she said, then paused for a beat before extending a hand. “Kelly, by the way. Kelly Moore.”

I glanced down at her hand, then back up at her, before shaking it lightly. “Jim Garraty”

She gave me a quick, firm handshake, her fingers cool against mine for half a second before she pulled away.

“So, Jim,” she said, tilting her head just slightly. “You go to school around here?”

I hesitated—just briefly—before nodding. “Yeah. Harvard.”

That got a reaction. Not surprise, exactly—more like mild curiosity, the kind that measured whether I was about to say something interesting or default to predictable answers.

She took another sip of whatever was in her cup. “What’s your major?”

“History.” I exhaled slightly, then admitted, “On a full scholarship.”

Her brows lifted, not in judgment, but in quiet acknowledgment.

“Well, damn,” she said, tapping a finger lightly against her cup. “I should’ve known you were one of those ridiculously smart people.”

I snorted, shifting my grip on my beer. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

She smiled skeptically but didn’t argue.

I cleared my throat. “What about you?”

“Boston University,” she said. “Sophomore, double major—English and theater arts.”

I nodded, keeping my expression neutral, but couldn’t quite suppress the small thread of disappointment curling in my chest. Not Harvard. That shouldn’t have mattered—I’d just met her, for fuck’s sake—but some irrational part of me had hoped. There was something about the ease of this conversation, the way she carried herself, the quiet confidence that made her seem familiar in a way I didn’t know how to define.

And then, of course, there was the part of me—the nineteen-year-old part—that was keenly aware of her in ways beyond intellectual curiosity. The effortless grace, the striking mix of sharp and soft features, the warm lilt in her voice.

I forced myself to refocus. “And before you ask,” she continued, sensing the next question, “I’m from Acworth, Georgia. Went to North Cobb High.”

“Miami,” I offered in return, surprised at how easily I said it. “South Miami High. Graduated last June.”

“Big move.”

“Yeah.”