I remember the way the light touched her hair. She turned her head, and our eyes met, a momentary awareness in that raucous1 fifth-grade classroom. I felt as though I’d been struck a blow under the heart. Thus began my first love affair.
Her name was Rachel, and I mooned my way through grade and high school, stricken at the mere sight of her, tongue-tied in her presence. Does anyone, anymore, linger in the shadows of evening, drawn by the pale light of a window—her window—like some hapless summer insect?
I would catch sight of her, walking down an aisle of trees to or from school, and I’d be paralyzed. She always seemed so poised2, so self-possessed. At home, I’d relive each encounter, writhing at the thought of my inadequacies. Even so, as we enterd our teens. I sensed her affectionate tolerance3 for me.
“Going steady” implied a maturity we still lacked. Her Orthodox Jewish upbringing and my own Catholic scruples imposed acelibate grace that made even kissing a distant prospect, however, fervently desired. I managed to hold her once at a dance—chaperoned, of course. Our embrace made her giggle, a sound so trusting that I hated myself for what I’d been thi