“I get it.” He nods, and then... He’s silent. Beautifully, compassionately silent.
I wait for him to talk it out, to bring up his own sad tale, to jump in with some solution or some mansplaination... Nothing.
“You’re a good listener,” I praise.
“You have a beautiful voice to listen to.”
“I love singing, but I...”
“I have three records. Used to have three hundred.”
“Patsy?” I hiss, even though he mentioned it last night.
“Mhm. Here, it’s not exactly fine dining music, but you can sing along if you want.”
He puts on a collection of Doo-Wop hits. They’re all familiar, easy to sing along with. And... And just to test out my theory, I whisper-sing a single line of one verse.
Jared doesn’t clutch his head. Or scream. Or faint. He sings the next verse to me.
I sing back, and suddenly, we’re singing together.
I can’t stop smiling.
It’s not until the third verse that I notice the roses are now gigantic, and the beautiful white vase topples onto the table under their weight, sending water all over the white tablecloth and the carpet underneath, sloshing into our empty salad plates.
“We’re gonna need a bigger vase,” he says, absolutely deadpan.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll help you mop up. Are you okay?” I start scooping up plates, wadding up the tablecloth as Jared moves the wine and bread.
“I’m sorry I didn’t buy a bigger vase.”
“No! Do you feel funny?”
“I’ve been told I’m sort of witty.”
I lightly smack his arm. “My voice doesn’t affect you?”
“Oh, it does. I hear it like a beautiful dream. I even heard it last night when I was falling asleep. I heard—” Jared stops suddenly, like he was so comfortable talking that he forgot he had an audience.
“What? What did my voice say? What did you hear?”
“Nothing. I mean, I heard something, but I can’t repeat it.”
He blushes. I blush.
“Did you hear me calling your name?” I ask, preparing for my immediate death by embarrassment. That’s the politest way to put it.
He nods and mops up the table.
My appetite plummets, probably a side effect of that whole impending death thing. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? That’s something every man dreams of hearing! Especially said by someone he loves, some gorgeous woman who sweeps him off his feet.” He puts down the towel he’s using, stepping closer to me as I put the wine and bread back on the now-dry table. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, I shouldn’t have called out last night.”
His eyebrows fly high. “That was you calling out? Outloud? I thought maybe you were just projecting it in my brain somehow, like your love song.”
“Might’ve been both,” I mumble, realizing I’m just digging my grave deeper every second. I could have let him think it was a dream, but no. Now he knows I’m a horny screamer who was begging him to come.
