get over it

It was nothing –
or in its best iteration,
a warm gesture

but it left her feeling
panicked, powerless:
deal with it, move on

because he meant nothing
except to be friendly
with men and women alike –

she being no different,
his hands on her shoulders
his forehead against hers

it was nothing –
she was nothing
so get over it.

Bathroom escape no. 2

It is 3 am and I am standing in a bathroom in a bar, hiding.  I don’t want to go back to my companions. 

I have been drinking and listening to everyone else yell/talk over other drunken patrons and bad music.  

I have been mostly quiet and having my own inner conversation:

One where first I sort of wish you were here 

and then I drink enough that I forget you exist

and then I drink too much and can’t live without you another second

because you are both the love of my life and a mistake I keep making

and then suddenly I need to hide in the bathroom. 

I am an adult woman – a professional – who hides in the bathroom – this night, to type out crazy rambling notes about you until people begin to wonder where I’ve gone and I begin to wonder why I don’t take all my therapy sessions in stinky dimly lit stalls. I go through the entire range of human emotion before I persuade myself to go back to the bar and rejoin reality. 

And yes: I’m still hiding in public bathrooms in my forties and I’m just not all that emotionally functional.  And most of the time, I pretend that no one really notices and it’s fine. 

Except fine is a ham sandwich. 

freudian funhouse

She attended begrudingly the
birthday luncheon of a geriatric man
she didn’t know at all

Over soggy bread and soft pasta,
she was transfixed by the
funhouse effect of the restaurant,

large smoky mirrors and shiny chrome —
elderly matriarchs with painted eyebrows
shaped like surprised rainbows,

something her friend had never noticed
before in his entire life, which she found
odd since he was afraid of clowns