I Ought To Feel Ashamed
I found out that
Eighteen we both were.
She lied to them about being older so that she could
venture into unfamiliarity.
We looked fairly the same, both humane enough
just that she’s dark-skinned and I’m a fair.
I devoured my lunch; she opened up a notebook.
“What are you scribbling?” they asked.
With vigour: “Recipes. New.”
I got up; she followed me closely behind.
she muttered hurriedly as she saw my hands already in the water.
“It’s fine. I can do it myself.
Thank you!” — I wondered whether those
two words were supposed to escape from my mouth: wait,
She’s supposed to be the one who’s grateful.
Do I thank her? Am I supposed to?
I ought to feel ashamed.