Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

     ‘Do I talk too much?’ she asks.  ‘You would tell me, wouldn’t you?  I mean, after all these years, we can be honest.  I trust you to tell me if I’m being a bore.  You would tell me, wouldn’t you?’

     The pause hangs, bubble-like, between us.  Contained within its fragility are words, millions and millions of words, words poured down telephone wires, words over wineglasses, words of woe and wonder, of children, work, husbands, holidays, triumphs, disasters - ‘you understand, I couldn’t say this to anyone else’ - oh, the flattery and seduction of that phrase!  But - ‘you’re so sensible....’ and I want to shout, I’m not.  I’m not.  I’m not.  Forty years she has labelled me thus.  Forty years I’ve listened - in kitchens and cafes, in parks and pubs, and, so often, here in this Italian restaurant, where the waiters flourishing phallic peppermills have become part of the ritual;  a ritual in which words are the coinage of friendship, the means of exchange.  And I do love her.  I love her enthusiasms, her openness.  If this pause lasts a fraction too long, I shall have given her the answer.  Without words.

     She’s so honest always, I’m sure she would tell me.  I know I do most of the talking, but when I say, ‘Now, let’s talk about you’, she never seems to have much to say.  I think, actually, she likes being the Good Listener - she’s always been interested in my writing and the kids.  And Tom and I - well, we do seem to attract incident, so I’ve always got masses of news.

     All these years we’ve known each other .... I’ve told so many people how we met that summer on the Peter Pan railway at Brighton.  Well, it makes a wonderful story.  And I do love her, even though she just sits there saying ‘Mmm’ and ‘Goodness!’ and ‘How marvellous!’  And I can trust her to tell me if I’m being boring.  She’d tell me if I talked too much.  In fact, if she doesn’t say anything now, she’ll have answered me.  Without words.

     The pause hangs there.  The bubble quivers.  It reflects us both.  We shine in it, in rainbow colours.  I don’t want to burst it.

     ‘No, of course you don’t talk too much’, I say.