She and the 1890s Book Club.

She was always self conscious,
Always conscious of her shyness,
Her feelings of inadequacy; as if
The others could see inside her

Head, know her thoughts. She sat
Stiffly, the others around her, their
Chatter, confident talk, conversations
Expressed so sure of themselves

Kind of thing, yet she said nothing,
Listened, eyed them, smiled when
Looked at. She sat just a little apart,
One hand beside her, one in her lap,

Knowing they were judging her,
Sizing her up, especially the men.
Such manners, such talk, Mother
Would say of her friends, yet secretly

She wished she could be as them,
Could speak so unconcernedly of
Others’ opinion, laugh, be open,
Intelligent talk, speaking of art, music

And the latest books. Three men
And six girls and all that talk and
Laughter and she not really a part
Of them, not one of the crowd, the

Odd one out, the shy outsider. And he
Sitting opposite her, on the other side
Of the small settee, giving her occasional
Looks, the eyes over her, taking in her

Fragile beauty, maybe, would say things,
Offer her a dance or drink, but she
Looked away, shyness flowing over her,
Drowning her in blushes. He looked

Away and smirked. She felt an urge to
Speak, to say things, to let them know,
Let them see.  But she just listened to
Their chatter, the men’s loud guffaws,

The girl’s high giggles, the eyes studying
Her, maybe he, standing behind the settee,
Might give her consideration, may offer
Her the chance, to allow her to speak in

Her own good time, utter what she knew
Of art or philosophy, that book by Spinoza
She’d struggled with, the poetry of Byron,
That painting she liked in the gallery when

Her parents took her last. But he turned
To speak to another, his eyes having touched
Her momentarily, then gone, unconcerned,
As she silently smouldered, secretly burned.