She'll Never Know

She’ll never know how right she was. Three days later, her words still in my ears; the Southern Belle still on the table, as empty as I feel (which is to say, not half-full). Coffee, no water, but thanks. A two nothing lead, but I have no allegiance.
She doesn’t know this but she was still right. A stranger. More of an acquaintance. She called me out: you need passion in your life. And it’s that obvious. My eyes exude it, radiated from the freckles of the iris, magnified by the glass between us. It’s written on my skin, branded in my words. It’s written on my skin: the wipe-ability of the epidermis doesn’t apply. Girls are singing love songs and it’s helping my headache. Girls are singing love songs and it’s helping my heart-ache. Was she wrong?
He could have been right. He was close. It’s half the reason we were talking at all. He was close, the cultural relativist of advice. But we both already knew the implications. The air was filled with the snow from the voices of other patrons; the generic din of a bar is uninviting to real conversation.
“There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” I’m well read. Am I read well? She’ll never know how right she was.