What Makes Me Cry?

“What makes me cry? Jeez, we’ve only known each other a few weeks and you already want me to emasculate myself?” I flashed her a wary grin.

“Oh, come on. You’re a sensitive guy,” she joked, but was serious too. It was true – I could admit it to myself easily enough. She’d caught me watery-eyed at the end of a movie and a book both.

“Well, sure,” I agreed wryly. “But if I let you let you see just how sensitive, will you still respect me?” It’s hard to keep all the male irrationality under control all the time.

“I will. I promise,” she said, tucking an errant lock of hair behind my ear – knowing how much I enjoy the touch of her fingers on my ear.

“Okay,” I relented. “I hate it when I know how confused someone is about their pain. It really gets to me; I’ll tear up at it. And not just with people. Animals too, maybe more so with then, because they /can’t/ understand, or at least there’s no real way for me to make them understand it.” Hell, I was on the verge of getting watery-eyed just explaining it.

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