Beneath my bare feet, the floorboards of the shed are warm. A cake crumb squishes between my toes. I shove my fingers down into my waistband. Shane keeps his eyes below my waist. His big lower lip hangs down so low I can see the spit on his teeth.

I tug the skirt down over my hips. I look at the net curtain behind Shane. I think about how white that curtain is. How clean.

I push the skirt over my thighs. I think about Shane’s mum washing the net every week, pegging the rough wet fabric to the whirligig. I think about the whipping sound it might make as it kicks out in the wind.

There’s a clunk as the rivets of the skirt hit the floor.

I flick a look at Shane, who seems focused on my knees. He breathes slowly, deliberately, taking a breath in, letting it go.

I cough out a giggle. Shane doesn’t move.

Fixing my eyes back on the curtain, I grab the side-strings of my knickers and pull them to my knees. I never wear the wrong knickers to Shane’s. I always choose the small black pair with the lace trim. I have to bend down a bit to get them off my feet.

The warm air licks around me. Every bit of me suddenly has a pulse. I slip my hands into the curve above my hips, run my tongue along my top lip, taste chocolate, and wait.

But he makes no sound, no movement, no nothing.

I look at him. His eyes seem to be closed. But then I realise he’s looking down at my toes. I’m standing here with just a T-shirt brushing the tops of my hips and he’s sitting, staring at my toes. Taking in each red painted toenail.

So I turn round, slowly, like I did in the pink pencil skirt. But this time he can take in each bit of leg, thigh, arse. I pause and concentrate. Perhaps I’ll feel his breath on my skin. Perhaps it will be wet. Perhaps he’ll put a big hand on me. Perhaps he’ll move for me, reach out and pull me over, pull me to him.

But when I’ve turned all the way round, his hands are clasped on his knees, and they’re white and dead looking. His curls fall over his eyes as his head drops lower.

I pick up my knickers, pull up my skirt. Shane doesn’t move from his chair.

‘I’m not your girlfriend,’ I say. And I open the shed door.

seven: September, 1985

seven

September, 1985