ninety-nine degrees

I count
in my mind
the number of words
I’ve said
to this guy.

Twenty?
Twenty-five?

Either way, not many.

And even now
as we walk, the only sound
either of us makes
is the sound of our shoes
hitting asphalt.

We step
in rhythm,
and in my mind
I come in with
a drum fill that makes
the crowd go wild.

He looks at me.
Smiles.
I smile back.
And still, no words.

One time Mom told me the people
you can be quiet with
are the ones
you are the most
comfortable with.

Then why am I sweating
like a lobster headed for
a boiling pot?