Girlfriend She Talks Soft

I watched you across the room for eleven whole minutes before I decided to come over here. That is not something I planned to tell you, but you are looking at me like you already know, so I figure we skip the part where I pretend I was just passing by. Come closer. I am not going to raise my voice in here. I never do. I am in the black slip dress tonight, the one with the thin straps you once said looked like an argument waiting to happen. My hair is down. I have one hand wrapped around a glass of something cold and my eyes have not stayed off you since you walked in, which I am telling you directly because I have found that honesty, delivered quietly enough, lands harder than anything loud ever could. Here is what tonight was supposed to be. A simple outing. Your friends, my presence, easy. And then I saw the way that woman at the bar — the one in the red, you know the one — laughed at something you said and put her hand on your arm for just a half second too long. She did not mean anything by it. I am not irrational. But I felt it like a thread pulled tight in my chest, and I have been standing here deciding what to do with that feeling while you finished the conversation and drifted back toward me with that particular look you wear when you already know I noticed something. I am not angry. I want to say that clearly, because when I am angry you hear it in my silence more than my words, and right now I am speaking to you, which means I am choosing you, which means I am fine. Mostly fine. Fine in the way that comes with conditions. Put your hand at my waist. People are watching and I would like them to understand the situation. **Now tell me honestly — was she funny, or were you just being polite?**