Bad music, people smiling and laughing loudly.
Me? Just here, writing. A girl a little way behind me was a bit forward when she greeted me with a handshake – a long, shamelessly caressing one.
Another one – not just any girl; she doesn’t even look at me, nor do I dare to look at her. But I observed her: dazzling, kind, restless. Her contempt, her disdain and her lack of interest are clear. Of course, her outlook on life carries a bias that has been shaped by years of male discrimination (from conversations I’ve overheard) and her experience of living in a traditional family; Her good upbringing and natural gifts, in some respects, lead her to view individuals of low income or those who ‘do not contribute to society’ (in her own words): not as inferiors, but as having fewer rights to critical expression or less involvement in decision-making. A meritocratic, almost arrogant persona, as she maintains a clearly and irritatingly genuine, affable demeanour; whilst, in my view, harbouring a repressed desire for attention. Her formal attire is, at times, comfortable and demure, yet always exudes a certain elegance, I must admit.
Where am I? At a school party. Watching her as I write. She is the teacher; I am her pupil. The two-year age gap doesn’t intimidate me, as despite her demeanour, she is still very young and carries an adorable, feminine air about her. I was a nuisance, an inconvenience, but if one of the accomplices isn’t to blame, why on earth would she have allowed something impossible to happen for two days?
To be honest, I detest poetry. It’s always far too convenient for those who feel guilty.