There is a keenness to the ache of sharing a couch with a couple. Noticing the subtle way their bodies fold into one another, noticing the way you curl against the other sturdy arm, decidedly separate. Feeling the distance as if a physical wall were up. Feeling the distance as if there were no wall but miles and miles of emptiness between here and the folds of their conversation. Noticing the way you breathe. Noticing the way your body folds into itself. Noticing how little space you take up, how lonely this moment could be. How lonely this moment may still be, years from now.

 

It is a similar feeling to the one in your elbows when your friend casually throws out upon the dinner table her supposition of how she would handle the news of her pregnancy to her husband. Her husband that does not yet exist. And yet she speaks of children and marriage as if they are inevitable. As if they already exist, in fact, just waiting offstage somewhere nearby.

 

When I think about my singleness, I think about how bitter I could be. How deeply gouged the wounds have become and how the bandages itch but I must leave them in place. I think about the scars I am sure to carry all my life, and how desperately I hope they heal smoothly, how desperately I hope the phantom pains will stay away.

 

When I look into the mirror, I see a mouth. A nose. Two cheeks. I often avoid the eyes. I avoid the questions and try to come to terms with the reality that this is it. This might be it. I will have to watch myself grow old, alone, someday, in another bathroom mirror in a house I keep all to myself.

 

I try to smile. It is a sad smile. A small one. I pity my own self and it shows in these small moments. But not for long. Somewhere, deep down, there is a reassurance that this will be ok. That this is what you’ll have expected. That at least you have an idea of where you’re headed, even if it’s not what you originally hoped for.

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(a musing while on Spring Break, 3/5/20)