Boscaiola For One

I went to dinner alone and it was fine.

Everything is fine.

Even though everyone seems to keep hoping it isn’t,

But then telling me it will be fine, eventually –

“You’ll get there”

Like I’m not moving to their timeline. 

Like I couldn’t possibly be “there” already.

I’m fine.

Apparently going to dinner alone was also a sign that I’m not fine.

Saying that sometimes I’m not fine is also not fine,

And saying that I’m genuinely fine means there is no way I’m fine – 

Eyebrows curled into questions marks,

Hugs that go for too long,

A “how are you” that feels heavy, damp, thick with worry,

Hands holding my wrists that feel like soggy towels,

Lips that curl in on themselves into this smile that’s upside down and weird,

It looks dumb on their face.

But that’s fine too.

People worry.

People want a narrative where there isn’t one.

They want someone to blame.

Or someone to hate.

Or someone to rescue.

Or just a little click bait. 

Someone to say, “I always knew it wasn’t right”

Even though they did.

Even though nothing was “wrong”.

It’s fine though. 

People are just idiots,

Sometimes.

I am too. 

Like the time I microwaved butter with the aluminum cover still on. 

Nearly burnt down the whole of Sydney. 

But that’s fine. 

I tell you what isn’t fine?

Hankies. 

Fuck that. 

If you use a hanky. Sort your life out. You’re not fine.