The Fork in the Middle

The couple at the table next to me keeps looking.

Not staring.

Looking.

The kind of looking that says: you're doing this wrong.

I'm eating a sandwich.

It's not complicated.

But I'm checking my phone every thirty seconds

like someone might be trying to reach me,

like I have somewhere else to be,

like this—

this sitting here by myself,

feeding myself,

taking up this small table—

is temporary,

is a mistake,

is something I'm waiting to get out of.

The fork is in the middle of my plate.

I don't know why.

I think I put it there

so my hands would have something to do besides exist.

The woman at the next table touches her boyfriend's arm.

She laughs at something he said.

The restaurant noise keeps going,

conversations stacking on top of conversations,

everyone's business becoming background,

becoming a kind of company,

and I'm still here

with my sandwich,

with my phone,

with the terrible certainty

that everyone is thinking the same thing:

why is she alone?

Why aren't you alone?

I want to ask them.

Why is being with someone else

the default,

the proof that you're doing it right?

The sandwich is getting cold.

I don't care.

I'm too busy performing not caring,

too busy checking my phone,

too busy being visible in a way

that says I didn't choose this,

that this is a stop on the way somewhere,

that I am, in fact, expected somewhere else.

The couple leaves.

I stay.

I eat the rest of my sandwich.

It tastes like loneliness and performance,

which is to say it tastes like shame.