there, I'm holding them out above the empty floor.
And when I take the Sunday papers in from the door, the comics are always on top. . . . Why do they always have to be on top? But there's no one to snatch at them, like there used to be, and rumple up all the other sections of the paper in the process of extracting them. No one's hand to slap down, like I used to every Sunday. ' Wait , can't you? Wait . How old are you, twelve years old?' They stay so smooth all the way into the flat. No one wants the funnies, I sit holding them all morning, waiting, and no one takes them from me, no one giggles like a little boy over in the corner, all hidden behind them. I have to cram them down the incinerator at last, because funnies shouldn't do that to you, they're supposed to make you happy. Then I repent ('He still may come out of that bedroom, he only overslept this morning.') but I can't get them back. I run all the way downstairs to the basement, but it's too late, I can't get them out of the furnace.
You're everywhere. You're nowhere. I can't go on, I can't go on. I wasn't meant to be a hero's wife. I was just meant to be Bucky's wife. And they won't let me any more. What can I do? How shall I last? Tell me, oh tell me, my darling, tell me quickly, for I can't hold out much longer.
Sharon.
. . . I've taken your advice. I've applied for a war job. They asked me what I could do; I told them 'Nothing.' They asked me what I wanted to do; I told them 'Anything.' I told them I wanted to work where there was the most noise, the most glare, the greatest number of machines and people. They didn't ask me why. They just looked at me and they seemed to understand. . . .
. . . It's like a strange new world, but it keeps me from thinking of you. There's such a clatter, I can't hear your name. There's such a glare, I can't see your face. It's what I wanted. We'll wait out this war that way, you and I. We'll fool them yet. . . .
. . . I'm a machine now. I don't feel or think. I don't hurt . All day long I'm numb from the noise, too numb to hurt. All night long I'm numb from exhaustion, too numb to hurt. I look like a machine too. Dark goggles, you can't see my face. An aluminum hood, you can't see my hair. Heavy gauntlets, you can't see my hands. Overalls, you can't tell I'm a woman. They all laughed at me because I wore a dress the first day I reported to work. I was the only one in the whole plant in a dress. The men asked each other, 'Where have I seen one of them before?' And then they'd say, 'That's a girl; you remember. One of them soft things they used to have around before the war.' And then they'd say, 'What was they for? I forget.'
At least I don't hurt .
And time is on my side. On our side. Every day is a day longer the war has lasted; but it's also a day shorter it still has to go. Don't you think the halfway mark has already slipped by without anyone knowing it? Say you do, say it has! Maybe it was yesterday, maybe even the day before.
There once was a thing called Peace. Remember it? Remember? Long ago and far away. . . .
. . . My bench mate looks as much like a machine as I do, but she's still a girl underneath, very much so. (She doesn't have to be afraid of hurting, I guess.) She loves without getting hurt. I don't know how it's done, but she has some kind of a system. 'It's just like crossing the street,' she says. 'Go fast, and dodge a lot, and you don't get hit.' She has dark red hair, I've seen it on the street, going home, and so they call her Rusty. If you call her by her right name, she doesn't recognize it any more, she doesn't know it's her. 'I wondered who that was,' she says. I have clocked her. They usually last about a week apiece. 'Stores give you a week on returns,' she says. 'Why should I take any longer? Otherwise they're liable to show wear,' Wednesdays seem to be her days for 'taking 'em back and shopping for a new one.' Don't ask me why. Every Wednesday regularly she has a new one out 'on approval.'
And when I take the Sunday papers in from the door, the comics are always on top. . . . Why do they always have to be on top? But there's no one to snatch at them, like there used to be, and rumple up all the other sections of the paper in the process of extracting them. No one's hand to slap down, like I used to every Sunday. ' Wait , can't you? Wait . How old are you, twelve years old?' They stay so smooth all the way into the flat. No one wants the funnies, I sit holding them all morning, waiting, and no one takes them from me, no one giggles like a little boy over in the corner, all hidden behind them. I have to cram them down the incinerator at last, because funnies shouldn't do that to you, they're supposed to make you happy. Then I repent ('He still may come out of that bedroom, he only overslept this morning.') but I can't get them back. I run all the way downstairs to the basement, but it's too late, I can't get them out of the furnace.
You're everywhere. You're nowhere. I can't go on, I can't go on. I wasn't meant to be a hero's wife. I was just meant to be Bucky's wife. And they won't let me any more. What can I do? How shall I last? Tell me, oh tell me, my darling, tell me quickly, for I can't hold out much longer.
Sharon.
. . . I've taken your advice. I've applied for a war job. They asked me what I could do; I told them 'Nothing.' They asked me what I wanted to do; I told them 'Anything.' I told them I wanted to work where there was the most noise, the most glare, the greatest number of machines and people. They didn't ask me why. They just looked at me and they seemed to understand. . . .
. . . It's like a strange new world, but it keeps me from thinking of you. There's such a clatter, I can't hear your name. There's such a glare, I can't see your face. It's what I wanted. We'll wait out this war that way, you and I. We'll fool them yet. . . .
. . . I'm a machine now. I don't feel or think. I don't hurt . All day long I'm numb from the noise, too numb to hurt. All night long I'm numb from exhaustion, too numb to hurt. I look like a machine too. Dark goggles, you can't see my face. An aluminum hood, you can't see my hair. Heavy gauntlets, you can't see my hands. Overalls, you can't tell I'm a woman. They all laughed at me because I wore a dress the first day I reported to work. I was the only one in the whole plant in a dress. The men asked each other, 'Where have I seen one of them before?' And then they'd say, 'That's a girl; you remember. One of them soft things they used to have around before the war.' And then they'd say, 'What was they for? I forget.'
At least I don't hurt .
And time is on my side. On our side. Every day is a day longer the war has lasted; but it's also a day shorter it still has to go. Don't you think the halfway mark has already slipped by without anyone knowing it? Say you do, say it has! Maybe it was yesterday, maybe even the day before.
There once was a thing called Peace. Remember it? Remember? Long ago and far away. . . .
. . . My bench mate looks as much like a machine as I do, but she's still a girl underneath, very much so. (She doesn't have to be afraid of hurting, I guess.) She loves without getting hurt. I don't know how it's done, but she has some kind of a system. 'It's just like crossing the street,' she says. 'Go fast, and dodge a lot, and you don't get hit.' She has dark red hair, I've seen it on the street, going home, and so they call her Rusty. If you call her by her right name, she doesn't recognize it any more, she doesn't know it's her. 'I wondered who that was,' she says. I have clocked her. They usually last about a week apiece. 'Stores give you a week on returns,' she says. 'Why should I take any longer? Otherwise they're liable to show wear,' Wednesdays seem to be her days for 'taking 'em back and shopping for a new one.' Don't ask me why. Every Wednesday regularly she has a new one out 'on approval.'
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