Fridays (Friday Number Five, September 15th, page 1 of 10)


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If I am to be known as a certified diarist, I must attempt to conscientiously record the happenings of the past week. It is not as difficult a chore as earlier. I am becoming addicted to this journal; conversations with myself. In addition to Amy, I now have this collection of bound paper as a confidant. Perhaps I'm trying to discover more about this person Lucille, now that I have time to do so.

Amy continues to accuse me of taking all of my phobias to ridiculous extremes. She wants us to discuss my fears, but I dismiss her from my mind and continue my sewing. I am me, Amy. Leave me alone.

The topic of Mr. Anderson weighs on my mind of late. I am suddenly aware of others' opinions, more so than usual.

On Tuesday I ventured to town after school and bought a new dress. While this would seem a ho-hum errand to most, it is an infrequent happening in the life of Lucille Peabody who gets her money's worth out of every item in her wardrobe. The color and style were unusual too; a bright maroon jersey jumper that I think quite stylish. Amy says I made the purchase to please Mr. Anderson but I was most vocal in insisting it was simply another step in creating my new life. I wore it Friday evening however. Mr. Anderson complimented most graciously.

Mr. Anderson has continued his practice of sitting next to me in church. This past Sunday I was in for a surprise. During the greeting, instead of shaking my hand, he bent and kissed me on the cheek! I was temporarily mortified at this sign of public affection until I caught the eye, and opened mouthed stare, of hen Edna Ridley. I had to chuckle. She's sure to have us secretly wed in her mind, as will the entire hen house! At least the ladies will tie me to the opposite sex. Better that than a mind-picture of Lucille Peabody, shaved to a butch haircut, passing out flyers for the gay liberation army!

I consider myself a fair shower-singer though I'd never dare utter a note in public. Sometimes in church I belt away a hymn if the melody catches my fancy and the rest of the congregation is sufficiently loud as to drown me out. Last Sunday a particular raucous tune heralded our exit from church and I was blasting away when Mr. Anderson caught me in mid-note and smiled. There usually isn't someone so close to my side. Though I blushed, I smiled in return.

I never eat before mass, a carry-over from my mother who grew up when fasting before communion was mandatory. Though the church dropped the requirement decades ago, mother never deviated and I followed suit from habit. Sometimes I feel a bit faint during particularly long-winded homilies, and I am ravenous after mass. Byrnes Coffee shop is my weekly stop. I considered asking Mr. Anderson to join me, but I decided against it. I do not want to display any interest in extending our relationship. He knows of my Sunday morning habit, but has refrained from stopping by the shop while I am there. This gives me confidence he is abiding by our agreement of Fridays only.

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