David

You hear the expression, “I liked him before I even liked boys.” For me, that statement is not accurate. I’ve always liked boys. When I was very little, I remember cuddling up on my mom’s bed sighing over BBC productions of old classics. I was in love with the idea of being in love. I was so jealous of girls like Elizabeth Bennet who were old enough to marry such romantic men. I was obsessed with couples and relationships. I always required an equal number of Barbie and Ken dolls because I never wanted anyone to be alone. (unless they were ugly in which case they were almost always naked or wearing the nasty baggy clothes I had inherited from the eighties.) This, of course, was before I had endured years of disappointment in the love department that turned me into a bitter cynic.

I don’t remember very much about my childhood, but I remember one thing vividly. I remember being in love with David. I would come home from church and spin around in a big circle letting my petticoat and dress fly out. I would sigh and fall to the floor looking lovingly at the ceiling and say “Oh David.” I would sigh once more and smile a silly grin. Of course I was made fun of by my sister and usually ended up crying, but I didn’t care. I just knew I loved David.

One day, I walked into the nursery with a beautiful, new dress and perfectly coiffed hair. I batted my eyelashes in David’s directions. He would normally stop whatever he was doing and toddle over to play with me, but today he ignored me. I was confused. This was definitely out of character for him. And then I saw her. Angela Brown was sitting on the other side of David ramming her truck into his. I was heart broken. I ran to the corner of the room and cried for the remainder of the hour. If only I’d known that this was the first of many rejections and heart breaks.