There was nothing proper about her — she stared too long, never wore bras and laughed at others’ mishaps, if it so struck her fancy. She was ill-trained in the way of apology, and she sauntered everywhere she went, even funerals and dinner parties, where everyone was coupled except her.

Her behavior had no exceptions. She had no version of herself, and this was her greatest sin. Nobody could claim her – neither as mother nor child, friend nor foe, neither wife nor lover. She was her own. Of course, she was acquainted with many, and maybe known by a few, but she never connected in that way that keeps women frightened into being well-behaved and so-called “responsible.” 

No, she responded only to an inner voice that others either didn’t hear, or didn’t trust (if they did hear it). And this made her a threat. Her center was pleasure, and her delight was mutable. Eyes burning with curiosity, people often felt she judged them. More than likely it was amusement – an amusement with the pervasive game of charades that initiated everyone else into the world of propriety — a game she herself never cared for, and refused to play.


© 2017. All Rights Reserved. Asha Tane.

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