Franklin had written a love poem or two in his time, but it had been a chore. He could talk, but talk was alive and in the air around him. Writing was different. With writing, he was confronted by the words on the page, challenged to make them more meaningful. Small talk, cliche´s, idle chatter—it was all meaningful when part of a living conversation, part of something bigger than himself. Without the interplay of others, his words fell flat.
He’d learned long ago that surface relationships were the best kind. People put their best foot forward, in many cases, because the other foot had something wrong with it. A person put up a good front, presented the better side for a photograph. That’s why everyone was a pleasure to know when you were just getting to know them.