“Oh, geez,” he protested. “I was just waitin’ for the end of the song.”
He smiled, and waited for me to smile back. I smiled back.
It was one of the crazy quirks we discovered we had in common, on our first date.
We’d pulled into our second restaurant location for dessert and what was supposed to be a good-night, night-cap.
Jeff pulled the handle to get out of the car, then glanced over at me, questioningly.
I hadn’t moved. My hand hovered over the dial. Poised, because, the song on the radio wasn’t at an appropriate end-spot. For my tastes, anyway.
Sheepishly, I explained my compulsion to listen all the way until the end of a tune. Or, at least, wait for a well-timed verse break or chorus completion or the top (or bottom) of an instrumental break, or when the singer took a big breath or something.
Jeff’s concerned expression had quickly morphed into a high-eyebrowed, silly grin. “Me, too!” he endearingly exclaimed.
My expression morphed into a silly grin. I flipped the switch as a comfortable place to end the music arrived, and we exited in sync.
We spent a good 20 minutes or so talking about the best place to stop listening, if you absolutely had to stop listening. If you didn’t have to, we agreed it was best to wait until the song ended. We also both expressed a dislike of DJ’s who liked to talk over carefully crafted ending instrumentals, and confessed to not being able to put a book down until the next chapter; or until the last line of a page had a completed sentence that ended in a period.
Jeff sat down at the kitchen table, while I dispersed groceries. I set a pot of water to boil. Spaghetti was always our back-up when Jeff didn’t feel like cooking. Or, when he took an unplanned afternoon nap that lasted a few hours.
“So,” I asked, after loading the milk Jeff said he’d drink into the fridge. “What was the song?”
“I don’t remember. It was kinda a surprise when I woke up.” Jeff told me.
“Hmm,” I wondered aloud. I asked him what his most recent blood-sugar was. “Oh, that’s ok!” he reported. “It’s only 220!” 220 was a low. Norm was 250-280, fasting.
“Why is it 220?” I asked. “What did you eat today?”
He told me he’d made fried eggs and fried bologna for breakfast, and hadn’t been hungry since.
I continued my inquiry. “Any of your meds change? Have you missed any? Run out of anything?”
He thought about that, while tapping two fingers on the table. “Nope. Got ‘em all picked up last week. Nothin’s changed in a while,” he concluded. “I’m just tired.” He chuckled. “Yep. Guess if I keep fallin’ asleep, I must be tired.”
“Well, maybe you should mention that to the doctor, at your next appointment. Do you have another appointment?”
“Yeah. In a couple weeks.”
“Maybe, you should call before then.” I suggested.
“Yeah.” Jeff agreed. “Maybe, I should call.”
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