She calls, even though she knows it’s my children’s bedtime, but Lynne calls anyway, because she’s in her car and on her cell phone and so she finally has a free minute.
And even though the children are Really and Imminently Almost In Bed, I take the call anyway, because it’s Lynne.
We will talk for Only A Minute. We actually talk for twenty.
“Well,” I explain to her, “of course Bill thinks we’re just going On And On, but that’s because I’m talking to you and so of course he will understand.”
“Yes,” she says in that teasing way, “and you are the one doing the talking, and I am the one who is listening.”
“Yes,” I say, and laugh.
And then it comes– the insecurity. “Oh really, Lynne? Is it really like that? Do I really do all the talking?” Because, you see, I fear there might be Some Truth to it, even Much Truth, and this Really Concerns Me. I like to talk, yes I do, and especially to Certain People. But I want Very Much– and, indeed, I try– to Also Listen.
And Lynne laughs again. “No, no,” she says to me. “You do not do all the talking, but I am teasing you about it because you tease yourself about it.”
Yes, she is right. I do tease myself about it, and this on account of the insecurity.
“No,” she says. “You do not do all the talking.” And then she says, “I’d rather listen to you than anyone else in the world.”
Well. And that’s all I need. That’s it. That’s all. A person can live on a comment like that for the better part of a week, you know.
And then she adds, “Except Scott, of course.” Who is her husband. And of course that’s good and appropriate, and it doesn’t make me feel insecure In The Slightest.
Of course, I do a Whole Lot More talking than Scott does, but I can’t help that.
Really I can’t.
