Tugboat
If I were so lucky I would sit with my back straight and taut without thinking about it. I would dance in that airy way; you know what I’m talking about. My arms floating up above my head like I am assuming the position of a lazy dive. My hips moving side to side in a non-sexual yet invigorating way. My finger, tense and pointing into the tactless face of a third-degree acquaintance. I sing to her with a fake yearning look. Sometimes when we dance we have that strange countenance of beseeching.
If I were so lucky I would touch strangers in a natural way, my palm falling onto their shoulders, cupping that knobby root-like end of their collarbone. We are the only two people that matter in this room because uninteresting people are withdrawn and we are definitely not that. Because of my hand on your shoulder, you see. Because of the light squeeze that follows. I am looking into your eyes to tell you I am listening. Can they tell how difficult this is for me? Placing my weight on them like this? I am conceding in a way because I want you to remember me. I’m leaving in 15. I’ll see you soon. Don’t forget I was here, though.
I am thinking about when I will fall asleep tonight. I am thinking about who will be in my bed to tell me when my sleep will come. If they don’t confirm it to me I will lay awake thinking about the single dirty mitten sitting on the sidewalk off Mercer. The ace of hearts playing card I saw flush and stuck to the cement, like the plastic film on a new TV. I turn to them with that same beseeching look. “I can’t sleep,” I whisper. “Tell me when I’ll fall asleep,” I want to say. I think they know better than me for some reason. And they will tell me “Soon.” So then I can finally sleep. Because they’ve told me so. I trust them — this is how it works.
When a far-removed friend touches me I recoil, flinches and all. When a stranger puts their arm around me and places a few fingers on my forearm I am smiling like I’ve won my 5th-grade spelling bee.
Months pass and I’m doing exposure therapies because now there are higher stakes and I want to be good and decent. I’m not a child anymore. I’m basking in the red light from a small lamp after its internet cookies followed me for weeks. I’m looping my arm through my walking partners’ because I realized maybe it was important to start acting on my instincts. In Paris, Andreas tells me he feels like he is my tugboat when I do this. Sometimes they are my tugboat. Sometimes we are paperclips I used to link in my father’s office. But they don’t know how difficult this is for me to do. I’ve stared at crooks of arms for a while, working up the courage to slot myself in. I count myself down to kisses on their cheeks, and when it’s over, I wonder if they know what I’m doing.