He liked to speak, if anything.
And so did she, but for him she'd listen too.
She'd prop her face on the palms of her hands, elbows on the table.
Her eyes would travel the distance to meet his.
In the darkly lit cafe that reeked of her agony.
And she'd open up her ears to listen to his voice.
And his voice!
It was the best of voices, simply put.
It grew louder during the more passionate parts of his storytelling and somber during the difficult parts.
And she wondered, 'How can he not see the love written out for him across my face?"
But when he'd thank her with his smile that drove another thorn into her heart, and handed her the money, she was reminded of what she meant to him.
A paid listener.
Cheap therapy.
She was going to need someone like herself once he was done with her.
That is if she wasn't a complete goner by then.