It Wasn't Personal

The third time he put his hand

on my shoulder I thought about

stepping sideways.

Not away from him specifically.

Just — sideways.

Into some adjacent version of the room

where hands stay in pockets.

It's a birthday party.

He's a good person.

The hand is friendly,

the weight of it neutral and brief —

and still my shirt felt like

it belonged to someone else

for the length of a sentence.

I stayed through one more round

of someone's story about their commute.

Then I found my coat

and made a quiet exit

that nobody noticed,

which is — fine.

Which is the preferred outcome.

I drove home and sat in the car

for a while before going inside.

Not thinking about anything specific.

Just the shoulder. Just the shirt.

The way a thing can be completely fine

and still be the thing that ends the night.