Fassbinder was standing outside a store on the Croisette, wearing his leather, standing, staring, virtually cruising. He couldn't hide. There was no anonymity here, unlike the dark back rooms of the Anvil where sometimes he visited, flying to New York from Berlin just for a day, spurred by the urges that proved to be his undoing in the end.
Either fear or awe denied me the strength to speak to him. Not that I was afraid of being seduced. More the opposite. What if he sneered at me?
Better just to acknowledge him and walk on, I thought at the time. Of course, there was never another chance. He was dead soon after. Chalk up this as merely a sighting... and a regret.
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