Jealous...?

How green-eyed was my monster when her impart of the written word graced tablets of electro-stone? The marbled screen hummed smugly, a static-driven accapella singing of my chances blown. Did I crumble, did I rock or clasp white talons to my heart, howling like a wounded cur? Or did I feel an empty space in silence open at me feet, a grave that swallowed thoughts of her? How cool were my responses, epistles glided down the wire her conscience to impinge? "I am not," I said, "the jealous type," and though machismo won't concede, I may have felt a twinge...