Both Shoulders

There's a read I've gotten good at —

who leads with the arms,

who goes in for the second hug at the door.

I was fine at the work thing

until he — I don't know his name well enough —

put both hands on my shoulders,

the way people do when they mean something

and want you to feel it arrive.

He said something encouraging.

I know it was.

I could hear it.

My hands were at my sides.

Fingers loose.

I was doing the thing I do:

stay still.

Very still.

And wait.

Two seconds.

Maybe three.

He was already onto something about the food

before I remembered what room I was in.

I don't know what I would have wanted instead.

That's the part I keep coming back to —

not the hands, not even the kindness,

just that question

and the answer coming back as nothing.

Some particular kind of nothing.

I stood the rest of the night

with my arms close to my sides.

Not folded.

Just aware of where they were.