There is a girl in my Tuesday night class who is decidedly awkward. She never speaks unless absolutely necessary. That is to say, I had never once heard her speak until she had to read her short story aloud last night. It was truly funny and finely crafted--and I'm relieved, because I had no indication, one way or the other, about her sensibilities. I thought it possible that an utter lack of sensibillity might be the motivation for her dogged silence.

Oddly enough, those who shared last night were given the option of having someone else read the work. The prof gave her the same option, but she simply said "I prefer to read it." Maybe she just refuses to be complicit, no matter what is at stake.

In any case, she, every week, wears exactly the same thing (0r so it seems). And she holds her long, spindly arms close to her body, which appears to be crooked in the seat. Her fingers are also incredibly long and tapered, the nails clean and manicured. Her glasses are of the thick variety. I have a sense that something horrible happened to this woman, the way she's shut up so tight inside herself, reminding me of gangly bird with twisted wings. A very palpable feeling of disturbance seems to hover over her, but not because of her, but more because of something she's seen or experienced.

She isn't simply reticent. Every ounce of her energy is concentrated on not stirring, not moving a muscle. Having grown up in a household with its own emotional and physical trauma, I recognize that look on another person.

In any case, it will be my turn to share in a couple of weeks (I was going to go next week, but since I'll just be getting back into town, the instructor said I could submit a week or so after that), and I feel woefully outclassed. As a poet, my short stories and vignettes are decidedly weak. And I don't have many to choose from, anyway. Talk about a painful experience for everyone!