gabbi c's

In Spanish, the word for alone is the same as the world for lonely.

 

In Spanish, the word for alone is the same as the word for lonely. I don't agree with this correspondence. I would prefer to describe myself as alone without chancing that someone misinterpret me as lonely. However, even with two different words in English, people can't seem to see the difference between being alone and feeling lonely. Maybe because you can see someone sitting alone, but you can't see them feeling alone.
 

See her sit
straight-backed or slouched?
foot bouncing or cross-ankled?
corner-facing or back to the wall?
alone.
See her with her
headphones on or white earbuds in?
books strewn or laptop open?
hair pulled back or falling in her face?
alone.

Does lonely reflect on your face? Maybe it's the hard-eyed cynicism of someone recently extracted from a sticky relationship. Maybe it's the gentle gaze of a social butterfly, unable to choose a flower to land upon. Do your eyelashes stick together, did you cry in your sleep? Did you dream of holding hands in the dark, whispering secrets, and then awaken feeling ripped apart. Maybe you might be feeling somewhere deep down in your subterranean soul, beneath layers of tissue and gristle and bone, is your body's secret that you actually might maybe feel alone. 

Have you ever felt lonely at a supermarket? I just did for the first time recently.

I am digging through the leftover brussels sprouts lazing around in the last bit of melted ice. A couple walked by, holding hands side-by-side, both smiling wide. I roll the brussels sprouts around the bin, feeling the still ice cold water sting my palms fingertips. The man asks the woman if she needs more pomegranates. She says they have enough, but how about they buy some squash? It's on sale after all. I open a flimsy plastic produce bag and toss a handful of brussels sprouts inside. The couple slouches around the apple bin and cozies up by the bananas. I shake off more brussels sprouts, flicking off bitterly cold beads of water before dropping them in my bag. One handful, two handful, three handfuls, four handfuls… I count without looking at the sprouts I scoop up. I count looking at the steps that the couple takes together. One step, two steps, three steps, four steps... I count enough for a week's worth of single serving apple-cider vinegar roasted brussels sprouts. 

My bag is about to burst with the ten pounds of brussels sprouts I've gathered.

As I weave my way through other shoppers, I'm suddenly aware of all the pairs floating from one aisle to the next. Carts filled to the brim with peanut butter jars, cereal boxes, crinkly produce bags, and pasta sauces squeak around the store. Enough food for two or three or even four weeks for me alone will feed this duo for half that amount of time. I feel like I'm spying on their lives, peeking at their purchases, trying to construct their morning, noon, and night eating habits. What if they eat separately? What if, like me, they eat sitting alone, staring at a computer screen or watching their friend's snapchat stories or reading a sad book? Maybe this whole grocery store shopping spree is an act, and everyone is lonely.
 

Maybe he's not alone, but is he lonely? Quizás él no es solo, ¿pero se siente solo?

Maybe she's alone, but is she lonely? Quizás ella es sola, ¿pero se siente sola?

Maybe they're together, but are they lonely? Quizás son juntos, ¿pero se sienten solos?

Sometimes I prefer to use Spanish, because the word for alone is the same as the world for lonely.