August 3, 2005

• I was reading a book the other day, and in it the main characters fall
  in love. They were only twelve, and so I thought to myself: isn’t twelve a little early for love? And of course, my answer was no, certainly not.

  I fell in love when I was very young. Only a little younger then
  twelve. She lived up the street from me. At first, she was my little
  sister’s friend, because at that age, you mainly make friends with
  people who are of your own sex. But she was the same age as me, and
  soon she was my sister’s friend that I hung out with sometimes. Not
  long after that: she was my friend. After that: my girlfriend. I had
  never had a girlfriend before. She had had a boyfriend though, his name
  was Travis; I knew him, and it used to make to jealous (before I knew
  what jealousy was, really).

  I can remember clearly the first time I kissed her. It was soon after
  we began going out. We were watching TV on a couch in my home, though
  we weren’t really watching TV. We were to interested in each other to
  really be paying attention. I can remember she was leaning on me, and
  then I bent over and kissed her mouth. It was like a flood gate opened
  for both of us, and we kissed over and over, close mouthed, each letter
  their body be close to the other. I can’t remember how long it went on
  for, the memory is a blur of happiness. Eventually my Dad came in and
  found us just lying together on the couch, which of course is strictly
  forbidden, and she had to go home.

  I broke her heart. We were together for about two years; we broke up
  for two weeks somewhere in the middle for a reason I can’t remember,
  but basically two years was the total we were together, and then she
  was going to move away. I can’t remember exactly how (looking back, I
  think it might have been partly Travis who convinced me) but I got the
  idea in my head that it would be better for her if we broke up before
  she left. That somehow it would cause her more pain to simply have to
  leave. So I did it, I broke up with her. We were in front of her house,
  and she started to cry. I couldn’t take it, so I left. Later, I
  remember, she was at my house, she came to see my sister, but that was
  probably just an excuse. I couldn’t face her. I can remember at one
  point she went into the washroom from my sister’s room, and I could
  hear her crying from where I was, in the TV room. Eventually my sister
  coaxed her out. I couldn’t help but turn to look; what I saw was
  sadness, and longing. I couldn’t look at her without crying myself, so
  I turned away to try not to. Then her sadness became anger, and she
  yelled insults at me as she ran out the door.

  And that was the end of our relationship.

  • 1:59 am
  • 5 Comments