Maybe it was your patience. Not just wait in the lobby patience. I’m talking about the kind that understood. The kind that was honest and endearing. Willing, accepting. Patience that did more than tolerate, did more than just sit there and read a year old magazine in a waiting room of cigarette smoke and a plethora of wailing savages. The kind that was neither contrived nor compromised. The kind that endowed its name justice. And it danced in your tongue, its balletic consonants sweeping and spinning till it fell through your heart.