THE BOY

THE BOY

He hates cleaning the class room but his turn as sweeper is a task he cannot escape, because the teacher is unforgiving. The price for evasion of this type of unjust labor is a low grade in good manners and right conduct, an item in his report card which he didn’t really care about.  He is only ten years old and after classes he should be playing.  His mother, however, is sure to hit the roof if he gets the axe of a grade even for this irrelevant endeavor. So he begins scrubbing the floor.

Good he is not alone in this thankless task. There are five of them in the cleaners group to clean up their own mess, and the mess of others.  Two boys, and three girls.

He’s in love with one of the girls, or so he feels, which feeling he  keeps  to himself. Young children aren’t suppose to be in love yet. He’s precocious  alright, but he can’t help it.

Doing the task he hates now turns out not bad after all, when the girl  is around.  He often steals glances at her  during classes.  Some strange force attracts him to her.  His heart leaps when she catches him gazing at her, and gives him that girly smile. He is happy that she welcomes the attention.  So they often stare long  at each other, in between lectures,  their eyes meeting in silent  communion, unmindful of everything but themselves.

Now he can feel the nearness of her. He finds scrubbing the dirty floor no longer a drudgery  but a delight because she sweeps the floor which he scrubs following his trail. And he likes it when she is  up close   wishing  this moment  will never end.  

Sweating profusely he reaches the end of the floor, marking the end of the work.  The girl comes up to  him as he drips with sweat.  She looks at him with such tenderness that his heart thumps in affectionate cadence. She has never been this close.   If only his heart can reach  out, if only his mouth can speak,  he will be able to purge himself of this  delicious melancholy which torments him. 

Alas he is dumb for he is at a loss for words. He struggles at the thought that he will lose this chance to say to her what he always dreamed of saying. 

He thinks she knows.  She waits for him to speak. Their eyes meet, exploding in the magic of the moment,  soaring  in total bliss, the boy wretchedly speechless.

The girl pulls the red headband off her hair. She holds his hand, puts the headband on his palm.  In the warmth of the touch they become passionately one.   

With gentleness she said to him, “I lost my handkerchief. You can use this to wipe off that dirt and sweat off your face. Take care. It’s yours to keep.”