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The Glove

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The one Tuesday night we were practising for the end-of-year thing, Miss Wilna took out all these pencils and white paper and said we must trace our right hands before we leave.

Stephnie Landman said she’s not tracing anything and Miss Wilna mustn’t think we think only black people and Greeks are perverts.

Miss Wilna went all pink in the neck and put the papers in a file.

Next week we all got gloves. White gloves for the finale. We sing “Minstrel from Heaven”, then we raise our hands for the chorus.

Stephnie Landman said she’s not waving no white glove like a lesbian speed cop, can she go stand at the back.

Miss Wilna just changed colour and said we must take the gloves home.

At the flat I didn’t take off the glove, I watched TV with the glove.

I kept looking down at the glove, it didn’t look like my hand anymore, it was like it was somebody else’s hand and it was on my leg. I was getting all hot inside and I loved Miss Wilna for making the glove.

The glove moved up my leg.

I said, Don’t do that.

Up went the glove.

I said, If you do that, it’s not right. We just sit here, then it’s nice.

The glove squeezed my hand. My hand was sweating but it did nothing. It just went with the glove.

Just pretend you have a visitor, said the glove.

Visitors are not like this, I said to the glove.

How the hell would you know? said the glove, You don’t go for tea with the others after practice. You don’t sit with anybody at work.

I don’t have to, I said.

But you want to, said the glove, Miss Wilna doesn’t look at your tits, you look at hers. And tonight you couldn’t take your eyes off Blignault’s ass, he wasn’t looking at yours. And what’s this?

The glove took my hand to that place.

I didn’t know what was happening. The glove was saying all these terrible things and doing the most wonderful things. But it felt wrong, in the flat like that, with the TV on and everything.

Don’t! I said to the glove.

You like it, said the glove.

Still, I said, We should go to the bedroom.

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