She thinks I'm listening to her,

and in part she's right.

I'm listening, and I hear what she's saying.

But it all sounds like a jazz record

or a soft rain

or a crowd of people at a soccer match.

More than her I hear myself listening to her.

That's an issue—

When you're listening is too loud.

Happens all the time.


She thinks I'm staring into her eyes.

Which is sort of true.

I'm looking into her left eye.

It's green.

I think I told her once how much I loved her eyes.

Partially true.

I like her eyes a lot.

But it's really just a mechanism to keep me from staring down her shirt.

God woman, wear a shirt.


She thinks I care.

And I really do.

I really, really care.

I'm just not that good at showing it.

So I'll smile while she tells her story.

Laugh when she laughs,

hold her when she cries.

With any luck she won't notice

that I haven't noticed a thing she's said for the three weeks we've dated.

In this way we will live happily ever after,

madly in love.