Old Vine Zin & Looming Questions

I don't mind just the sound of a 

fan oscillating across my bedroom,

or the windows pulling in a soft 

whoosh of cars nearby on the interstate.

I don't mind that it's Friday night

and I've drank three-quarters of 

the old vine zin without having 

shared it with anyone.

I don't mind, I guess, how clueless

I am beyond our cute dinners and 

steamy hours in bed. But then, maybe 

I do mind, if that's the peek of our 
crescendo, the high note falling flat.

I do mind feeling weird if I raise

the question, that looming question, 

and then waiting for something more 

than "What's the rush? Chillax."

I'm as chill as one gets, immobile often-

times, but shouldn't I want to know, pry, 

look inside his man-skull and find the 

tiniest sliver suggesting I'm more than 

just an ego stroke to his way with sexual 

prowess, his proven manly ability to 
cause a woman to moan and squirm 
in a way that keeps him fully content.

I mean, who am I to him anyway?