He was a talker, a natural speaker, a monologist, a droner, on and on, awakened to the hum of his own voice, inspired and verbose, his eyes never leaving hers as he provoked, entertained, explained, explained, explained, went back to the beginning, just before Adam and Eve with his endless commentary on this plant and that, the origin of this particular insect, the flight pattern of that bird, the distinctive shape of a certain fish’s fin, and the obvious subtext, the implied meaning, the connection, not without purpose, of course, purpose, goals, objectives, not being the main thing or the only thing, but if you didn’t know where you were going, how would you get there?
He took a breath. She was surprised he could still breathe. She sighed audibly, purposefully, opened her mouth to speak, but too slowly.
He was gesturing now, hands punctuating speech: we must stay the course, keep our eye on the ball, we can build a better mousetrap, but can't count our chickens until they're hatched, and, at the end of the day, someone has to bring home the bacon. She was fascinated now. The clichés fell from his lips like rubies, each more polished, more familiar than the one before
She was bobbing with him, nodding and bobbing to keep the beat going, the monotonous river of words that no one needed to listen to. As long as she kept the nods and the hands and hmmms and the reallys going, she was free to think, perchance to dream. And, as he was fond of saying, it takes two to tango, and we all know it ain't over till the fat lady sings.
© 2013 Kathleen Coskran
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