They said come out, the room is good, you’ll love it,
said it twice, sent the details, name your price
and they’d meet it. It’s been too long since I’ve been seen.
But the calculus of walking into any room runs:
the parking, the standing, the names I dig up
while landing the handshake, the noise at a volume
that requires leaning in,
the cost I haven’t seen balanced in my social budget
for a while now.
The energy it takes—
you want the honest breakdown, here’s how:
the energy it takes to walk through the door
without counting what I’m spending getting there
runs past what’s available tonight
in the reserves of the willing.
The parking, the performance, the names, the feeling
of being a version of myself
that other people can confirm is real.
The energy it takes is more than what I’ve got
to steal from the rest of this evening.
I ran the numbers. Filed.
I texted quick apologies with just enough
specific detail to pass as true—
said something came up, nothing to derail the night,
said go without me, said next time like I meant it
in the way a man says next time when he’s got
no next times left to spend on getting through the week.
That version confirmed the date out loud.
This version—this couch, this controlled quiet,
the known overhead—
skipped the show and felt almost nothing.
Almost.
They sent the photo from the room.
I liked it without leaving,
absorbed the image in the tomb of my couch
and felt the guilt, which is shorter than the relief
that follows when the choice is made—
the brief duration of remorse
compared to the sustained expansion
of the evening I retained by staying.
They had a good time.
So did I.
The energy it takes.
Different night.
Goodbye.