She looked up again. 8:01pm. Was it too late for dinner? No. Well, not really. The sun was taking its sweet time. Sh!$. So was he.
She leaned back in her chair. God. I hope he doesn't think I'm waiting for him to call. Nail clippings and an open laptop were evidence that she was not waiting; evidence that she was too busy to wait, too busy to have dinner. She was a busy woman and didn't have time to notice things like...the time.
She turned the volume up on her radio and paused. I am not going to check my email again. Instead, she suddenly became very aware that her bed hadn't been properly made (but, really, when had it ever been) and that she didn't like her hair. Is it too late to curl it? It looks so flat! I swear it looked fine an hour ago. She turned the radio up. She turned the radio down. Just in case, she thought.
She shivered as she smoothed the corners of her mattress. She replayed the conversations over and over, all the time. Only her favorite parts. Only the parts that made her forget and repeat everything she was doing for the moment. How was it possible that she liked, that she enjoyed, that she delighted in, feeling like a plastic doll (limbs and emotions completely maneuverable and manipulated), a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed little girl, whenever he spoke to her? How was it possible that she - she who had an opinion just to have an opinion and intimidated and infuriated all the boys - could say absolutely nothing in response (or in protest) to his shameless, incessant winking, teasing, touching, smirking, smiling, flirting? She didn't dare protest - he might stop. And then what would she have left?
She smoothed the corners of her mattress again. She loved reading between the lines, interpreting glances and gestures and grins. The gaps and the blanks were easy to fill in. It was the fine print she avoided. She was never satisfied with their time together. She couldn't understand why he said, why he did, some of the things he did. What did he mean? What was he thinking? Why did he look at her that way? Then how could he walk right past her? She never showed much emotion, much expression, much attention, much of a reaction. She never asked why he sometimes left without saying good-bye. She never allowed herself to believe what she suspected. She couldn't care. At least, she couldn't show that she did.
He hadn't said that he would call. He never said that he would call. But he did. He would. Whenever he wanted to, he would call.
She wanted him to know. She wanted to know. Only, she already knew.
8:37pm.
She leaned back in her chair. God. I hope he doesn't think I'm waiting for him to call. Nail clippings and an open laptop were evidence that she was not waiting; evidence that she was too busy to wait, too busy to have dinner. She was a busy woman and didn't have time to notice things like...the time.
She turned the volume up on her radio and paused. I am not going to check my email again. Instead, she suddenly became very aware that her bed hadn't been properly made (but, really, when had it ever been) and that she didn't like her hair. Is it too late to curl it? It looks so flat! I swear it looked fine an hour ago. She turned the radio up. She turned the radio down. Just in case, she thought.
She shivered as she smoothed the corners of her mattress. She replayed the conversations over and over, all the time. Only her favorite parts. Only the parts that made her forget and repeat everything she was doing for the moment. How was it possible that she liked, that she enjoyed, that she delighted in, feeling like a plastic doll (limbs and emotions completely maneuverable and manipulated), a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed little girl, whenever he spoke to her? How was it possible that she - she who had an opinion just to have an opinion and intimidated and infuriated all the boys - could say absolutely nothing in response (or in protest) to his shameless, incessant winking, teasing, touching, smirking, smiling, flirting? She didn't dare protest - he might stop. And then what would she have left?
She smoothed the corners of her mattress again. She loved reading between the lines, interpreting glances and gestures and grins. The gaps and the blanks were easy to fill in. It was the fine print she avoided. She was never satisfied with their time together. She couldn't understand why he said, why he did, some of the things he did. What did he mean? What was he thinking? Why did he look at her that way? Then how could he walk right past her? She never showed much emotion, much expression, much attention, much of a reaction. She never asked why he sometimes left without saying good-bye. She never allowed herself to believe what she suspected. She couldn't care. At least, she couldn't show that she did.
He hadn't said that he would call. He never said that he would call. But he did. He would. Whenever he wanted to, he would call.
She wanted him to know. She wanted to know. Only, she already knew.
8:37pm.
