On days like these, when the rain doesn't fall, and the sun doesn't come out, and the weather just hangs in the air, we become completely silent.

She hates the weather and she hates it when it can't make up its mind.

We sit at the kitchen table for a good seven minutes before she acknowledges me.

Her face is blank like a canvas. She wants me to fill it.

I start to speak, but she interrupts, “Justin.” A beat, a staccato, barely two syllables.

I start to speak, but she interrupts, “So when are you gonna be my Lloyd Dobler, J?”

She has this confusing, odd habit of placing me in old movies and I have to figure out what the hell she's talking about. Today is easy though.

I counter back, “Depends. I gave you my heart. Where's my pen?”

She grunts and pretends to swoon. “You're no fun. Besides, you don't hold a candle to John Cusack.”

“Please. John Cusack is practically fucking 60 by now.” ¼ a smile.

I wiggle my eyebrows, “He has nothing on me, wanna see a real man, baby?” ½ a smile.

I start to speak, but she interrupts, with her cutting silence.

On days like these, half smiles are infinitely better than blank faces.