Before I Could Say

We're at the café.

I'm explaining something—

what, I don't remember now—

when your hand starts moving

toward my shoulder.

My body says no

before my mouth catches up.

I turn.

Your palm is suspended

in the air between us,

confused, still reaching.

The space is small—

maybe three inches—

but it feels like I've drawn a line

in concrete that will never wash away.

Your hand falls.

You say something light,

something that means

don't make this weird,

which is what people say

when you've already made it weird

by refusing

the small contact

that should be nothing,

that should be easy.

It isn't easy.

Your hand on my shoulder

would have been a kindness,

a normal gesture,

and I can't explain

that my body isn't normal,

that my skin sometimes feels

like it belongs to someone else,

that touch is a debt

I'm not ready to pay.

So I turn back to my coffee

and you put your hand down

and we sit there in the aftermath

of your reaching,

your suspended palm,

the three inches between us

that you didn't cross.

I'm grateful.

I'm also sorry.

I don't know which one

you need to hear.