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She ambled into the college lounge, her brother with her. Tall, almost six-foot five in stocking feet, all legs and arms, and thin as a pole, yet he managed to remain unseen. A neat trick that. Red cooper hair and brown eyes and a face filled with freckles from too much sun, he folded himself into one of the chairs, or rather cushioned benches that masequeraded as chairs in the dorm's lounge. It wasn't his school, he was just visiting, few weeks, maybe a month, not sure how long. Just long enough to get away from the rents, who his sister called folks, and get his head together.
In the front of the room she sat, cross-legged, big like him, yet not as big she couldn't fold her knees under her. The other chairs were taken by a mixed range of people, students he quessed. Like her. Some looked older, some closer to his age. Male and female, mostly white, although he caught a few blacks and other races, not many though.
He watched as she pulled out a couple of sheets of paper. A man ambled in front of her. No, not a man, a boy, lean like him, but shorter, with facial hair, but not much, just enough to make him feel like a man. Said her name aloud. Announced she'd be reading her own poetry. Scattered clapping. He waited for her to begin, his stomach knotting for her, wondering why she did it. Art he got, painting a picture or aiming a camera at a person. But reading one's own thoughts, words, aloud to strangers? He thought of her as a loner, off by herself. So it seemed against her character somehow to be doing this. Sitting up there, alone.
She opened her mouth and the words tumbled out, her fingers trembling as she read. After a while her whole body shook, much like their mother's did when she was nervous or himself. He looked down at his own fingers. Steady. Smoking helped. Could use a smoke now. Roll one. Inhale, exhale.
Gritted his teeth trying not to think about it, to focus on her.
Not great poetry he thought. He'd heard better, but he was picky, he knew that. But she read it in such a way that the audience was captivated. So was he after a while. Her words, simple as they sounded, ripped at him. Pain was there and it was personal. Made him think of her stories in their mother's chest and the drawings - the harsh lines of red, such anger. The poem she read was he thought about lost love, about friendship, about...rejection. And while her voice and tone were light, sarcastic, mocking, he caught the rage beneath. He wanted to pull her off the chair and out of there. Take off into the woods of their childhood, where it was just the two of them, telling stories, no onlookers. Quiet.
Afterwards, someone approached her. Asked to look at the poem and gave her, what best could be called a back-handed compliment. "Great reading. Oddest thing, your reading of the poem is riveting, the best I've heard, but the work itself is not good at all. Don't know how you do it."
Later as they walked back to her house, she turned towards him, asked what he thought. Did he like it? He chose his words, picked over them. Like wasn't the right word, he thought. "I think you should be careful how and who you expose yourself to. Your poetry seems private to me. Personal.
I'm not sure these are the right people to hear it."
She looked at him in confusion. They didn't say anything else. There was nothing else to say.
In the front of the room she sat, cross-legged, big like him, yet not as big she couldn't fold her knees under her. The other chairs were taken by a mixed range of people, students he quessed. Like her. Some looked older, some closer to his age. Male and female, mostly white, although he caught a few blacks and other races, not many though.
He watched as she pulled out a couple of sheets of paper. A man ambled in front of her. No, not a man, a boy, lean like him, but shorter, with facial hair, but not much, just enough to make him feel like a man. Said her name aloud. Announced she'd be reading her own poetry. Scattered clapping. He waited for her to begin, his stomach knotting for her, wondering why she did it. Art he got, painting a picture or aiming a camera at a person. But reading one's own thoughts, words, aloud to strangers? He thought of her as a loner, off by herself. So it seemed against her character somehow to be doing this. Sitting up there, alone.
She opened her mouth and the words tumbled out, her fingers trembling as she read. After a while her whole body shook, much like their mother's did when she was nervous or himself. He looked down at his own fingers. Steady. Smoking helped. Could use a smoke now. Roll one. Inhale, exhale.
Gritted his teeth trying not to think about it, to focus on her.
Not great poetry he thought. He'd heard better, but he was picky, he knew that. But she read it in such a way that the audience was captivated. So was he after a while. Her words, simple as they sounded, ripped at him. Pain was there and it was personal. Made him think of her stories in their mother's chest and the drawings - the harsh lines of red, such anger. The poem she read was he thought about lost love, about friendship, about...rejection. And while her voice and tone were light, sarcastic, mocking, he caught the rage beneath. He wanted to pull her off the chair and out of there. Take off into the woods of their childhood, where it was just the two of them, telling stories, no onlookers. Quiet.
Afterwards, someone approached her. Asked to look at the poem and gave her, what best could be called a back-handed compliment. "Great reading. Oddest thing, your reading of the poem is riveting, the best I've heard, but the work itself is not good at all. Don't know how you do it."
Later as they walked back to her house, she turned towards him, asked what he thought. Did he like it? He chose his words, picked over them. Like wasn't the right word, he thought. "I think you should be careful how and who you expose yourself to. Your poetry seems private to me. Personal.
I'm not sure these are the right people to hear it."
She looked at him in confusion. They didn't say anything else. There was nothing else to say.