We always stop ourselves at “and.”

We never say those sentences to each other, only to others.

We reveal things about ourselves that seem innocuous until someone asks us “…and?”

She is cool but …”and?”

A simple “What do you mean by that?” would suffice.

But we stop ourselves at “and.”

“He does this and this and this and wow…”

If anyone were to ask “and?” it would slip out:

“And I love him…”

But no one bothered to ask.

They could have believed that we hated each other, and they may not have been wrong.

And you would say things too, and if someone had just asked you to elaborate, or asked “…and?” maybe both of us would know by now.

“She is so mysterious”

“And…?”

“And I love her?”

“He is so gruff…”

“And…?”

“And I love him?”

But no one bothered to ask.

They just sat there, and watched us like circusgoers,

Their lips sewn shut as they sensed the restraint between us,

The oddities in our differences,

The tension in those in-betweens.

They heard the things we said about each other when we were not together.

They knew the truth about us more than we did, and maybe we underestimated this.

They saw us draw closer towards each other in a room…

Your involuntary displays of affection have given you away, sir. I know how you feel. I know how you love.

You are cold, odd, ruthless, brutal, shut out.

But I sense the tenderness in you – In the way you watch a thunderstorm; in the company that you keep, in the way you offer ladies your seat and ask if they want wine instead of beer.

You may be a brute, but you treat ladies like ladies.

You have given yourself away, sir.

Where were we supposed to go from here?

Had you uttered just one word, you would have me.

Had you just said… “And…?”