The Only Empty Floor

Some evenings need a pep talk. This was one of them.

The plan was simple. Leave the house. Sit among strangers. Let the hum of other people’s lives do what it supposedly does: remind you that you belong to something. A city. A species. A weekday, at minimum.

So I went. The whole negotiation. Shoes, keys, one last look at the couch.

The restaurant was full. Properly full. Every floor packed, which, if your goal is to be around people, is excellent news.

There was exactly one floor with room left.

Mine.

It had room because nobody was on it.

Somewhere in this building, people are clinking glasses and interrupting each other and having the evening I came here for. I can’t see a single one of them. I left home to stop being alone in a room, and I am now alone in a much larger room. With a menu.

Technically, the mission worked. I’m out. I’m surrounded by people. They’re just on other floors.

Which is, if you think about it, exactly how I live at home.

Same arrangement. Better lighting. Worse prices.

Exposure therapy, it turns out, requires actual exposure.