Conversation Nonetheless

I was not interesting. That was what he told me. That I had no interests of note, that speaking to me was dull, that he felt as though he had to impart each one of his interests onto me. And that, that was why we could not see one another.

I was seated. My eyes moved upwards, meeting his. I stared into them, the eyes of the man I’d still listen speak for hours. Truth be told, as upset as I was, I was still glad he was speaking with me. Not the conversation I’d have chosen, but a conversation nonetheless.

There was something so intimate about speech. That a person’s thoughts, ideas, feelings could live within you. I could not wrap my head around it. I listened too much? Spoke too little? I did not see it that way. I loved hearing him speak. Currently, he was into cameras. Many a night would he talk about the new film camera he picked up. How much he loved the intentionality of it all. I loved watching him speak. His pupils often met the corners of his eyes. And he would rest his tongue on his top lip between thoughts. And when he said something funny – even if just to himself – he would smirk, revealing his canines.

I wanted to tell him to stay. That I could do what he described. Talk more. Share hobbies, or I guess according to him, develop them first. I did not know how. How to tell him that. Truth is, I did not want to. I liked him. I wanted to hear him. Part of me feared though, that if I did, it would give him reason. Justify his decision; his leaving. That my offering to fix things was nothing more than a testament to things being broken. I could not stand that.