"Do you think you're a good listener?" He asked me as we drove down Fremont Street in Northeast Portland on our way home. My hand resting on his leg. You know, whenever someone asks you that question you known full well that they aren't asking you because they think you are the most amazing, top notch listener in the entire world. My hand left his leg and migrated right back over to my own lap.
Now, I'm pretty much a straight forward sort of guy. My yes's mean that. And my no's mean that. I know my faults. I'm not in denial over much. My initial answer to his question was "No" but I discovered that wasn't quite right. Actually, more honestly, I'm a good listener. I hear you. I even understand you most of the time. My problem is patience. I have little. So, while I'm hearing you, I'm speeding up whatever you're saying to me in my own head. I'm trying to get to the end. I want the facts. Just the facts, Maam. My issue is that I want to fast forward your belabored little story, get to the end, and on to something else exciting. One of my many faults. There are others, I assure you.