Sheila sat at the dinner table.
Her mother had dished up
for all. She sat down and talked
to her husband. Sheila forked food.
What'd they say if I told them?
Too young, Mum'd say. Boys
are for older girls. I suppose
she'd say that. Wonder how old
she was when she and Dad got
together? She eyed her older sister.
Older by a year. Not so up with it.
Bit religious. Crosses herself as
often as not. Sees sin in all things.
Sheila sipped water from the tall
glass. Licked lips. John has nice lips.
Wants to. Kiss them. His fingers
touched hers on the bus. Sitting
beside her. None saw. Good. Just
as well. Tongues wag. Her big sister
at the back of the bus saw nought.
Sheila forked more food. Cat got
your tongue? Her mother asked,
eyeing her. O leave the girl alone,
Father said, best thing silence at
mealtimes. You can talk, said she.
Nothing but work matters or who
did what. Work matters, he said,
spend half me life there. Sheila
sipped more water. Her big sister
stared at her. Big eyes. Dark as
prunes. Miss G said I'm good at
music, her sister said. I got the
Schubert symphony right on, she
added. John has a lovely smile.
His eyes so hazel. The quiff of
brown hair. Some say he has an
Elvis smile. Good on you, Father
said, that Schubert fellow and his
unfinished. He laughed. Mother
stared unimpressed. Silent girls
have secrets,Mother said, eyeing
Sheila. What was school like for
you? She asked. History was good,
Sheila replied. Boring as duck's *****
she mused, eyeing her big sister.
What was the history? Mother asked.
War, I told you earlier, Sheila said,
killing people, bombs, bloodshed.
That's life, her father said. Mother
eyed Shelia darkly. Mouthed her food,
looked away. John's hand in hers. Warm,
soft, flesh on flesh. Something stirred
in her ***** On fire. Odd sensation.
Well it was. Was on that one occasion.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
Sheila sat at the dinner table.
Her mother had dished up
for all. She sat down and talked
to her husband. Sheila forked food.
What'd they say if I told them?
Too young, Mum'd say. Boys
are for older girls. I suppose
she'd say that. Wonder how old
she was when she and Dad got
together? She eyed her older sister.
Older by a year. Not so up with it.
Bit religious. Crosses herself as
often as not. Sees sin in all things.
Sheila sipped water from the tall
glass. Licked lips. John has nice lips.
Wants to. Kiss them. His fingers
touched hers on the bus. Sitting
beside her. None saw. Good. Just
as well. Tongues wag. Her big sister
at the back of the bus saw nought.
Sheila forked more food. Cat got
your tongue? Her mother asked,
eyeing her. O leave the girl alone,
Father said, best thing silence at
mealtimes. You can talk, said she.
Nothing but work matters or who
did what. Work matters, he said,
spend half me life there. Sheila
sipped more water. Her big sister
stared at her. Big eyes. Dark as
prunes. Miss G said I'm good at
music, her sister said. I got the
Schubert symphony right on, she
added. John has a lovely smile.
His eyes so hazel. The quiff of
brown hair. Some say he has an
Elvis smile. Good on you, Father
said, that Schubert fellow and his
unfinished. He laughed. Mother
stared unimpressed. Silent girls
have secrets,Mother said, eyeing
Sheila. What was school like for
you? She asked. History was good,
Sheila replied. Boring as duck's *****
she mused, eyeing her big sister.
What was the history? Mother asked.
War, I told you earlier, Sheila said,
killing people, bombs, bloodshed.
That's life, her father said. Mother
eyed Shelia darkly. Mouthed her food,
looked away. John's hand in hers. Warm,
soft, flesh on flesh. Something stirred
in her ***** On fire. Odd sensation.
Well it was. Was on that one occasion.
A HIGH SCHOOL GIRL AT MEALTIME IN 1962.
