SHSOSHANA LIED 1962
Shoshana walked past her mother
in the kitchen, said hello, Mother
said, how are you? how was school?
Shoshana said she was ok and school
was too. Go change out of the school
uniform, Mother said. Shoshana climbed
the stairs and went to her room. Closed
the door. Naaman’s eyes are lovely.
Wanted to kiss. Maybe tomorrow.
She undid her school tie and pulled
it off and folded it and laid it down on
the dressing table. She unbuttoned
her blouse. Wonder if he would do
this for me? His fingers not mine.
Pretend it's him, not me. She closed
her eyes. Fingered the buttons.
She took one hand with the other.
Pretended to stop the imaginary him.
Let her hand go. Would he do so?
She took off the blouse and dropped
it to the floor. Eyes remained closed.
She unzipped her green skirt. His
fingers she imagined. Slowly unzipped.
She let the skirt drop to the floor.
Kicked it over by the bed. Downstairs
music played. Her mother had turned
on the radio. Some singer singing.
Shoshana opened her eyes. She stood
and gazed at herself in the dressing
table mirror. She was too thin. Her
breasts were small. Her figure had
little shape. SHOSHANA her mother
called, BRING DOWN YOUR WASHING.
What would Naaman say if he could
see me now? Not that he would. Not
likely. As if. She dressed in an old skirt
and top. COMING NOW, she called.
Naaman. She said his name. Naaman.
She picked up her soiled linen; went
down the stairs imagining he was behind
her, hands around her waist. She put
the linen on the floor for her mother
to sort and wash. I have been calling
you many times, Mother said, have you
cloth ears? No, I was daydreaming,
Shoshana replied. About what? Mother
asked. Being a princess, Shoshana lied.