We were talking about our favorite artist,and how it was a shame that it wasn’t reciprocal.
"I don’t think she likes me," he said.
"Well," he amended,
"I don’t think she appreciates what I do."
"I hear you," I replied,
"I go to her shows whenever I can,
but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her at one of mine.
I profess love for what she does, and she’s always polite,
always friendly to me.
But she’s never said anything one way or another
about what I do."
"Exactly!" he said, "Of course, it’s not about reciprocity.
Nobody has to like what I do. I get it. Still…"
I nodded. I got it, too.
At no point did I say to him or did he say to me
how frequently we had ever gone to each other’s gigs
– which could be calculated in goose eggs –
as we pondered why she didn’t love us enough.

We never got satisfactory answers.