She's looking nice, washed hair and perfume,
And she's mentioned his name twice just casually,
She's late tonight and you wonder,
Why she can't face what you've cooked, and how nonchalent she looks,
When you mention that he called just after three.

It's the little things, the little things,
Like the brittle sound her voice had on the phone.
It's the little things, two coffee cup rings,
That you found when you got home, and she told you when you phoned,
That she was drinking coffee all alone.

You wouldn't mind, you like her old friends,
You suggest a dinner date, you, her and him,
She thinks he's out but she'll try to phone him,
And she thinks she has the number, so she roots around her bag,
And she's not sure, but she thinks he won't be in.

It's the little things, the little things,
The hand you touch is cold and hard as stone,
It's the little things, unfamiliar tunes she sings,
In a strangely happy tone, and the crumpled note that's thrown,
Beneath the bed where she's been sleeping all alone.

Oh the Little things becoming everything, little stories turning into lies,
Little things, when the phone goes dead after two rings,
And the little tears falling from her eyes.

It's the little things, the little things,
She jumps up and she says she has to go,
The little things, the little things,

Like how little you knew you loved her so.

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