March 2, 2001

Girlie

She closes her eyes. Cradling the telephone to her breast, she whispers softly to the night "Tell me you love me."

But he has already gone, and she waits a few pained seconds before hanging up as well. Her sorrow is almost tangible in the room, thick enough to taste. She is bitter because her optimism, her morals, her necessity and her fear, have led her to an empty bed; to this cold pillow instead of his arms.

She knows he loves her. The abscence of the words means little, perhaps their presence would belittle that delicious emotion on his lips. And yet she is weakened by her need to hear it, weakened by that cautious, faulty-wired female lying just under her skin. What makes the woman worry? Or, rather, what makes the girl doubt?

Confidence is like sinew in a woman. She has shed her girl's skin long ago, given up her romanticism and her dependence. She is carefull only where care is pertinent, needing only where need is unavoidable.

Is it possible for the woman in her to love what the girl in her would scorn?