Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. ~William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
And the first time I sat next to you was the first time I heard that kind of silence - and at first to me it was too loud, too deafening. And I thought to myself that such dense silence was not possible: I must have turned deaf.
What else could I do, but breaking that silence with my foolishness, by asking whether you were bored. And then you reached over the table and took my hand and asked how that could be possible.
The following occasions spent sitting next to you, I heard that silence, again and again, without fail. Only it wasn't that loud anymore, no more as dense. Through it I could hear the movements of the air conveying things of comforts: your silent sighs, your moving a finger and crossing a leg, the memory of the tone of your voice, saying how could this be possibly boring.
