She considered in an affliction.
The boys would come to call, and while she loved the attention, she could never just accept their sweaty fumblings on her porch on warm evenings, bugs swarming over the single-bulb light her father insisted stay on when callers were present.
Many had tried, but everyone failed. She’d sit on her hands, or maybe play with a dark braid from her mane of hair, looking softly at her lap and not saying much. They’d just give up, walk away sullenly, some even angrily, swatting at the honeysuckle bush with closed fists.
In the end, she couldn’t commit to them. She tore through their insecurities with brown cow eyes.
And would shed more hot, salty tears for her cold, calloused heart.