There was stuff she needed to tell him. There were words she wanted him to hear. There were words she wanted to hear. But they reveled in their silences. Awkward as they may be, neither was willing to push the envelope.
He made her feel on top of the world. But she suspected that he probably had that effect on other women too. And that didn’t make her feel special enough. He was polite and warm, albeit slightly forgetful. The minor detail often skipped his attention. And he could never fathom why she went ballistic when it did. He’d shrug it away, attributing it to PMS mostly. Every other week or fortnight.
She wished she was more frank with him. But she was afraid to break the spell. She feared he would flinch away and that she would lose him forever. Therefore, she tried being patient. She indulged his lack of memory, ignored his sometimes-condescending nature and pretended that all was hunky-dory. It lent her an air of dignity of sorts. She wasn’t as loose-mouthed as she had been expected to be and he respected that.
However, it very conveniently slipped her mind that he was dealing with a similar set of pretensions. He hoped she would take a little more interest in his life, loosen up a little and not obsess as much as she did. He was a little mature about it though. He let her be. Didn’t indulge her. But didn’t reprimand her or give her grief about it either. Call it age, common sense or sobriety. He didn’t believe in stifling or possessing her. He loved her enough to let her be. She was his, he hoped. But he wouldn’t resist if she chose otherwise.
There were words of caution he hoped she would listen to. There was stuff he wanted her to know. There were words he wanted to hear.
They were both willing to be patient. Coming to terms with it in their own different ways. Their means were different but had common intent. Perhaps that held them afloat. Perhaps that prevented them from sparring. Perhaps, it was the key to their happiness.