I enjoy doing things alone.

I suppose with so many things that are uncertain in life, I know that I can expect loneliness to feel exactly as described, every time. I know that I will be where I need to be and on time, every time. I know that after the sound of fumbling for the keys, the seal breaking between the door and the doorway, the knock of a couple of steps onto the floor and the ambient sound of the city closing behind that resealed door that I will feel alone. Every time.

I go to dinner alone and often. The loneliness is already understood and really not even a thought because the loneliness rises to contentedness, but only until I make the reservation. I have far too much anxiety to announce my loneliness to a hostess, but not enough to sit and be observed eating alone. Most times, reservations are for two or more and I need that reservation. I choose: two. It is only then that I am reminded of my loneliness and the contentedness subsides, but only for a moment.

Sometimes I will eat dinner at a place I have visited prior, but I hardly look up from my plate. I fear I might start to see a pattern, a familiar face. I do not know why it bugs me, but if I had to guess, it would be loneliness and familiarity are exclusively content with never getting to know one another. Sometimes with familiarity comes expectations and expectations can go unmet. I can lower those odds by cutting out variables and the math gets messy when I rely on anything other than myself.

There is some kind of comfort in hearing laughter at another table, mention of a name of a person I will never know and how jealous of or excited for someone is of them. A farewell, bell on a door. A greeting for the next table served.

I wonder what they think of me.

Does the waitress whisper? Do they want to know what I am reading? Maybe they think I am sad. Maybe they think I am confident. If they ever figure it out, I myself, would like to know.