THE SAD STARE.

A SCHOOL GIRL AND HER UNFULFILLED LOVE.

Christina screws up the piece of paper and throws it in the waste bin by her bed. She wants to write a love letter, but it won't come out right, the words come out wrong. She sits on her bed sucking the end of the pen. At school she can think of lots of things she wants to say to him, but putting it into a letter is different. The words look weak; seem unable to carry what she wants to say. She has got as far as, Dear Benedict, three times and after that it goes all wrong; either she says too much too soon or she struggles to get the words in the right place. She sits staring at the blank paper, pen in mouth, sucking. Her mother was in one of her moods when she got in from school; it was always something that wrong with how she left her bedroom, leaving clothes on the floor, not putting clean clothes away, leaving hairs in the sink, or the tooth powder tin lid was left off. She stomped up stairs while her mother was calling out to her not to leave her underclothes under the bed. She had slammed the door to shut words off from her hearing. When I was a girl I'd have had my backside slapped for acting like you do to me, her mother had moaned. She leaned against the door with her body pressed against it, her hands palms flat against the wood panels. Now she sits wanting to write to Benedict. Love letter. Letter of love. She closes her eyes and imagines he's there in her room. Beside her on the bed, looking over her shoulder, chin maybe resting on her shoulder. She sighs softly. Then what? Downstairs her mother has switched on the radio and it is on loud, sweeping up the staircase along the passage to her room. She wouldn't mind if it was something she liked, but it was classical stuff, highbrow music, her brother calls it. Her mother says it soothes her nerves, allows her to unwind, forget the day's worries and concerns. She opens her eyes and stares at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. She wishes she had wavy or curly hair, not straight and hanging there like dull brown curtains. Her nose is stubby, her mouth shapeless. She purses her lips and makes a kissing sound. She puts down the pen and puts the paper and pen on the bed. She gets up and stands in front of the mirror. She embraces herself. Turning around and looking over her shoulder it appears as if she is being embraced by another. She moves her hands up and down her back. Imagines it is Benedict embracing her. Funny to look at. What if he could see her now? Sad cow, he'd think, embracing herself in front of a mirror. But he isn't there, she's alone, looking at her reflection, embracing, mouthing words. At school the other day, on the sports field, during lunch recess, he had come along to her and she left her group of friends, and walked off with him up the field. She held his hand. Felt the warmth of it, the flesh on flesh thing. She even moved her fingers to feel his more closer. They had talked as they walked, he about his passion for art or how he wanted to write one day and have a popular novel done, she talked about her mother's moods, the rows, the threatened good hidings, the misunderstandings, her big brother and things, but she said nothing more on that, some things were best left unsaid. They had walked to the far fence of the school grounds and stared at the passing traffic. They were near to the small woodlands by the sports field. She'd heard of at least two girls going in there with boys and doing things. She didn't know much more, probably gossip anyway, she had thought, standing next to him by the fence. She wanted to kiss him, but he didn't want to she thought, because others might see. They stood there talking, then silence, holding hands. As they walked back down the field she wanted to rush back to the woodland with him and at least kiss him. But they walked on down the field towards the playing area, where the playground for the boys was one side of the school, and the playground for the girls the other side. Once hidden by the wall he kissed her. Quickly, suddenly, lips touching, pressing, then apart and off he went and she walked on, all built up inside with whatever it was bubbling inside. She does another turn in front of her mirror, still embracing. If only it was him, not her arms or hands, but his. Smoothing her hair, holding her close, fingers touching along her spine. One hand reaching to touch a buttock. She shuts her eyes. Seems more better to imagine him being there, doing those things. The other night in bed she put his photograph( which he had given her after she had given him one of her) next to her heart and held it there, well it was pressed against her left breast, but it was the closest she could get. Then she had kissed it over and over and put it under pillow and slept all night dreaming of him. She sighs. Looks at herself, the reflection, the straight dull hair, grey cardigan and green skirt, white socks. The music is still loud downstairs, her mother is singing what she says is an aria or some such thing. She prefers the music she hears on the small radio under her bed covers and blankets, some foreign radio station, pop music, singing about love and kisses, and boys and lovers. Soon be time for dinner. Her mother will call up and say DINNER IS ON THE TABLE, loudly, desperately, as if her all day has been for that one moment. Best get out of my school clothes, she muses, or she'll moan about that too. She takes off the cardigan and throws it on the back of a chair by her bed. She undoes the green tie and throws it aside. She unbuttons the white blouse slowly, thinking how good it would be if Benedict was there to do it. DINNER IS READY her mother calls, the words overriding the music, the words heavy as lead. OK, COMING, she bellows back. She throws the blouse and skirt on the floor and grabbing jeans and pink top she hurriedly dresses, then gazing at her reflection once more in the mirror, she licks a finger and runs it over her eyebrows. On the bed, pen and paper lie unused. She looks at them there. Maybe after dinner she will try again. If Benedict was there she could tell him, could show him, could hold him, squeeze him to her. But he was miles and miles away in his own small village, she is here, alone, unembraced, unkissed, wanting him, needing him, wishing for him to be there, but he isn't, just her gazing at the mirror at herself standing giving her the sad stare.