or a love, for that matter
When I was young, I guess about 9 or so, I wanted what all the girls were wearing... white hi-top running shoes called Sparx. I begged. I pleaded. And eventually, after many months of whining, was taken to the local department store to pick out my shoes. There was only a few pairs left... in pink. I had to have them, though. I went home with them, wearing them straight from the store and the next day went to school. They laughed at me. Made fun of my new pink Sparx. Just so that there was no doubt, they made me know that I was not cool at all... and not to even bother to try again.
I ran home. Cried. And the shoes remained in the bottom of my closet, never to be worn again.
Carla, Miriam, Laura. I hoped the worst for you. Sometimes, I still do.
When I was young, about 9 or so, there was this boy named Peter something or other. I admired him from afar, hung on his every word. He found out. Followed me home from school. Tackled me on the ground. Demanded 'who do you love? who do you love?' We talked for about a half an hour, him pinning my arms up behind me, me unable to declare my crush. He went home a while later, and for the following 4 weeks, walked with me while I did my paper-route. Helped folding papers, carrying the bag when it was at its heaviest. He moved away, not too long after.
I still have a thing for blue eyes and forthright people.