“What did she tell you about me?”
I look down.
Again, hungrily: “What did she tell?”
I say nothing. She said nothing. She said everything.
To be worthy of your confidences, she must protect them. And yet. To be worthy of her interest, would your secrets not have burst her banks, compelled sharing?
“She told you, didn’t she? She must’ve said something.”
What is it, I wonder, that you secretly wish she shared? Why this wish to prise it third-hand back from me, as though seeking some faint portrait of yourself on the painted silver of the mirrorback?
If she told, would I not keep her confidence?
If she didn’t tell, would I not wish to preserve your hope that she had?
She sang your praises. She lit votive candles at the altar of you.
Who did you say you are again?
No, I believe I am mistaken. I don’t think she said a thing.
She didn’t mention your name. Or, if she did, dropped only your name, and carried the rest of you as her own precious cargo.