What's Funny

He laughed as I was leaving, and leaving him hanging, no doubt. We had indulged a quick something in passing--not quite a dialogue, but nothing less. The usual some kind of a thing, where we offer what we have, albeit not much of it is in the form of a sentence. The usual something-or-other, where we reach a temporary end, and I leave (or am left) feeling renovated and yet crushed by a thing inexplicable, and I'm relatively certain that I could devastate just about any sort of thing in my path with the howling fury that probably flies in rays out of my eyes. Then, instead, I use the rays to burn another hatch mark into the something. I mean, into the wall.

It was just the usual transitory not-nothing as I set and he rises, so to speak.

And then he laughed.

But it wasn't the kind of laugh that twinkles his eyes, and subsequently mine. And if it had truly been aloud, I would have known it. This was the nearly silent laugh of a creature, elusive himself, evaded by me, conceding to an evening's fate. It was another tacit moment that I'm not altogether sure he knows I apprehended. This wasn't the first time that one little laugh seized me by the throat and nearly coaxed forth the expression--however ineffable--of that which I also crave, but it does belong to one man alone. I can't remember a time before I was wracking my brain, programming a method to make futile the distance between my mouth and his. I would extinguish his bereft laugh if I could, but not forever, because I know I would want to do it again.

And then I left.

I could ruminate on the appropriate noun with which to describe or explain the history of my behavior, but really, I'm discussing modernity here. The reprise, or something even catchier. And perhaps what I'm doing isn't driven by a noun at all, so much as the dodge of a seemingly incomplete invitation, but a clear invitation in spite of its misshapenness. A clever invitation, even, for a girl who has an eye for a subtle man. Such carnal intimations tucked quietly, neatly within the folds of mundane observations. He offers questions without the indicative mark, created by hands too willingly disconnected from their source to make what some might feel is a passable request. His breadcrumbs are shaped like trees in a forest. And somehow I've grown to adore his almost complete aversion to saying things, harnessing what I believe is my ability to interpret something nearly akin to his language, which is none at all. Perhaps it is my own silence that has unfettered my sight. Questions seem only to breed more questions, until we finally stop asking them. Still, there is a perfectly justifiable question somewhere in that laugh, and my avoidance is approaching negligence.