Hers Buzzing

I used to watch her rattling off her thoughts at a pace usually reserved for the enraged, or in-denial. I never listened. Just watched. She would get home from work and immediately begin, even before having unwrapped her scarf from her neck. The volume of her voice would rise and fall as she moved through our tiny apartment, setting her things carefully down in their proper places: Shoes on the welcome mat inside the closet, hat on the microwave with the other hats, jacket on the corner of the futon, her bag on the bedroom doorknob.
I would park myself down on my favorite patch of hardwood in front of the futon and watch. Watch and nod when appropriate. My favorite was when she washed dishes and her voice reverberated in the awkward space between the sink and the cabinets, and she would stop to assure herself that she had my attention, "Don't you think?," or "Isn't that strange?" I would respond, "Absolutely," in my voice, tinny against hers buzzing.
There was no greater joy than observing her in her frantic and furious way, and looking forward to what she would feel like later that night. In our bedroom, her head against my chest. Her rambling speech quieted, her nervous energy slowed to a dull throb, lost in the language of exhaustion.