I’ve Been Listening
Photo by Claud Richmond on Unsplash
Brief story from my single adult days. I had two friends - let’s call them Herbert and Mabel, since those most definitely aren’t their real names. I’d usually see both of them a couple of times a week at the university medical school library (I wasn’t in medical school, but the cool kids hung out there) or the “Institute” - a student center for my church just off campus. One week, I was bemused to realize that in our little snatches of conversation, both of these friends were telling me the same story.
On Monday, Herbert said, “I’ve got a big decision to make. There are two girls I like, and I’ve got to choose between them.”
On Tuesday, Mabel said, “Herbert and I have gone out a few times, and he’s trying to decide whether or not to get serious.”
Now, I’m a dunce when it comes to grasping social nuances, and I was laboring under the fog of late nights finishing assignments and writing essays, but I noticed the discrepancy between the two stories. And kept my own counsel.
On Wednesday, Mabel was still in the agony of uncertainty.
On Thursday, she was beaming. She and Herbert were officially a couple.
On Friday, I bumped into Herbert again. I told him, “Hey, my roommates and I are having a few friends over tomorrow after the dance. You’re invited - oh, and bring Mabel.”
It was comical to see consternation suffuse his face as he made out the implications of my already knowing what he hadn’t told me. “Oh . . . ,” he said, “You’ve been talking.”
Being in the habit of putting my foot into my mouth multiple times a day (quite a feat for someone with the flexibility of a two-by-four!) I reflected on my conversations of the last week with deep satisfaction.
“Nope,” I told him reassuringly, “I’ve been listening.”
We lost contact when I left the city for full-time work soon after, but I ran into the two of them almost a decade later, married, and with two or three kids in tow. I’ll take that as a happy ending.
A wise old owl sat in an oak
The more he saw, the less he spoke.
The less he spoke, the more he heard.
Why aren’t we like that wise old bird?
- Traditional nursery rhyme
