From a remarkable story by Alexandra Kleeman, "Fairy Tale" in The Paris Review no. 195:

What sort of person was I? I had a rich store of memories . . . . But I had no idea who this person might be, or any of the people might be who sat at that table and watched me at the door and claimed to have feelings not exactly for me, but at me. When they smiled, the skiing around their eyes and mouths bunched up. I had the distinct sense they were all made of the same material, by someone who owned a big bolt of fleshy cloth. At some point I must have met them, loved them, had fine times. But now all they evoked was a sense of responsibility, a vague and resentful crust. When I led this new man back to the table, the suitors had already begun to compete in earnest.