write me a love song

Write me a love song, she said, asking, really, more than anything, nicely, certainly not demanding, and he said I’ve tried, but it hasn’t worked, and she nodded, surprised at his matter-of-fact answer for she was just kidding, a bit, and she hid her reaction with a smile, but suddenly felt a lump grow in her throat, and she looked away from the disappointment in his eyes so he wouldn’t see it in hers. What’s it mean, she asked, still hiding herself from him, and he thought for a moment, then for another, then said it just means that the words haven’t come, then added, yet, and she said, but aren’t they supposed to just be there, by now, and he sucked in a deep breath and answered, I think so, yes. She didn’t cry, right then, though she wanted to, but instead just hid what she felt behind another nice smile. It was what she did; it was her way. Vulnerability wasn’t her strong suit.