Credit obviously to Stephen Sondheim and Hugh Wheeler.
Thoughtful, there. That's a good word. I'd put it to meself, I would. I know you don't think so. Just by hap I didn't think so meself until a bit ago. But times change, they do. The cemeteries fill, the knees get weak the more stairs they have to go up. You get worn with all the years. You'd know all about that, wouldn't you, love? I'd put a wager as to you would, all them sodding years.
But you see, I've wandered long off me point again. I have a bit of a tendency, that's all. I'm absent, but mercy knows, I do try. Been called notorious, I have – oh, and not like that. Notorious, just for talking. Imagine. People will say, won't they, that I don't think about me words, that I'll just let you know whatever little detail seems to pop into me head. That widow up the street's an open book, they say.
What do they know, though, eh? Certainly nothing about me; they'll never come round, just wag their jaws with a taste of pity. And I'm not an open book, is what they don't know. Well, maybe I do talk too much, but mercy knows, I don't speak about half them things what pops into me head. I just speak about everything else. You see, I'm so much more thoughtful than people tend to take me for. I'm practical, and absent, and thoughtful.
I had to be. If I wasn't before, I had to learn. Mercy, but I had so much to think about! – things happening such as they did. I hate being alone, you see; I have since I was a little thing. Silence jars me ears. And of course, there I found meself, nothing if not alone! Well, that would be the luck of mine, wouldn't it, now? Had to something, I did, to pass out the years. So I thought, me cheeks pressed up against that great fire at Christmastide. No one near me, so I had to occupy meself on thoughts.
Much as I hated it, and meself for being so wrong, who was ever there in me thoughts but you? Knew I was wrong, I did. Missed what presence you gave me, and you wasn't even the man I lost. Well. I suppose I did lose you in a certain way, but you never was the man I was supposed to lose, that's what I mean. Never even for me losing, was you, sir? No, 'course not.
Sometimes you did cross me mind, though. Not always, mind you. I was usually able to keep you out, or what memories we even had. Not many, but the odd few moments what I locked away and never looked at.
Sometimes, though, without even meaning to, you crossed me, you did. And I'd stop what it was I was doing. Moments like that froze me right up. Well, I'd think for a passing second, bless me thrice. What blinding beautiful eyes he had. And there's a thing, sir, what I'd never have said to any one at all.
Mercy, but that wouldn't be too proper, would it? You another woman's absent husband, and me another man's widowed wife? No; wouldn't do at all. Widows are supposed to be quite near virginal, aren't they, though if the truth be spoke I've no idea in God's green earth how that's meant to work itself out. Oh, well; these were just thoughts, just something I used for to keep meself amused all through them long hours. Loved you well, I always did; maybe even too well. Never told you that; just hummed round you.
I'd move on after. What could I do but that? Dreamed sometimes, I did, on the chilly winter mornings when I was all alone with a fire. Dreamed, but never dwelled. I didn't have the time for that. Knew the nature of them sentiments what I bore you, of course, but what were they to you or me? You all gone up like you were, and me not really much better, always in a struggle. Well, all them struggles kept bread on the table, anyway.
There was times, you know, it was too cold for sleep. I'd lay awake, I would, and shiver under blankets. I'd stare at the moon and the sky. Never did get me back to sleep. Always tried it, though.
I wondered, I did, what it was what was wrong with me. Shivering all through them cold nights, I didn't even miss who it was I was meant to. I never had done anything what quite turned out how it was meant. Well, mercy knows, I always tried. Couldn't help what run 'cross me mind. I never could help what I loved, or who. I tried, oh I did, for so many years not to.
On that day when you were happy, I was bent up against me bed-posts, all kneeled out, and begging that God should kill this affection. Which He didn't. I console meself, I do, with this notion that He put it there for a purpose. 'Course, I still have yet to know what it is, I do. I do try to faith in this world, love.
I think all manner of things to you, love, when I'm standing by your side, and it does tear me up awful to know that I'll never tell you them. I talk to you, I do, about whatever it is I can find on me lips. Silence jars me ears, and your silence jars me heart. Mercy, but I want for nothing but you; always have. What I want, really, is that you'd be well, that's all.
I bring you flowers, then. I knew you by them eyes, I did; them blinding beautiful eyes what had fell into me view by a number of times I couldn't count. I do doubt as it'll ever come forth from me own two lips, but the truth is, I love you even when you shatter up me heart so awful. There's times, of course, when I don't what I should say, or what you'll be needing from me, and those'll be the times when I hold you. And you don't speak, my love. You don't have to. I know in some way, I do; 'cause of that way you stop shaking then, when I hold you.
Thoughtful. That's a good word, there. I'd put it to meself, I would.