Listeners

Listeners will always turn the conversation away from them and back to you. Being a talker, I fall for that every time. Talkers. Are we the narcissists? Loving to hear the sounds of our own voices? Maybe. But who are they? The listeners, sitting in the shadows, their faces obscured by wing chairs. Are they our audience, entranced and entertained by our stories -- or are they our therapists, our Father Confessors?  Are they bored, thinking about something else entirely? Do they even hear a word we say? Hostile, wishing we would just shut the hell up? Are they our silent judges? Like God?

"Your turn to talk," I always break off at some point, embarrassed at my lengthy monologue. A long silence ensues. Listeners-turned-into-talkers pause between words, considering what they will say next or even if they will speak at all. Will they ever get to it, reveal themselves? No. Uncertain, afraid of being jumped on or interrupted, they give up easily. They were probably criticized for speaking out as children; now they're afraid of offering their true opinions.

That's one sort of listener. The other sort goes straight to the point. Short and concise, he says what he wants to say and then he's finished. Is that all? Is there no foreplay, no wallowing in words? No lingering aftermath? That one thing said seems wise in retrospect, precious because it's so brief. Or is it just forgotten? So short, so quick.  Barely spoken. Whispered.