Lonely isn’t contingent upon an empty room or lacking human contact. You can feel alone in a room of friends or in a car next to your husband.
My husband Brian enjoys attending parties and large gatherings and tonight is no exception. He relishes the idea of a captive audience for his bad jokes and tall tales. As Brian drives, I grow tense, worrying my inconsequential stories won’t measure up to the other guests’ more polished narratives, bringing out insecurities and exacerbating my loneliness. But Brian offers his usual comfort and says, “you’re ridiculous.” And so, I stop talking.
As the night continues, Brian’s awareness of my presence continues to shrink until I am almost invisible. Although I stand next to him, Brian never notices I am partly missing. And so, eventually, I step away and alternately find my way into the bathroom and kitchen, finding solace in the company of sweet things I discover about the loving couple who host the party. I snoop around in their bathroom closet, medicine chest, and overstuffed kitchen cabinets, somehow no longer feeling entirely alone.
You see, lonely is coming home from a party with the person who forgets he carries my heart in his hands. And so, although there are two of us eating the leftover carnitas and beans he likes in the kitchen, watching a late-night show he picked out for us both, and later, sleeping beside one another that night, I am really just one.
I stifle cries with my pillow, wanting and waiting to escape this lonesomeness when eventually, the sleeping pills take effect. I had been careful to crush them before mixing them into Brian's beans flavored with Picante sauce. And despite two hearts in our bed, only one beats. And I suddenly no longer feel so alone.
I loved this and the twist at the end.
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