He had six toes, a devilish smile, and cheekbones that riveted you to his every facial expression. He was color blind, but a lot of men are. I couldn’t help but notice him, though. His features were dark and Italian, like mine. His name? Al. We were in first grade, but I knew that when I looked at him, there was something different, a regard I didn’t give girls. He liked my sense of humor, and I was intoxicated by his deep brown eyes, so we played Hot Wheels together. We used to set up miles of plastic track around the classroom, beaming at what we had accomplished. We had created something exciting, yet totally innocuous, together. When I thought about how well we worked together, my heart bled and my soul fluttered, but why remained unsure; I was still impossibly young.
Our wild passion for our game continued. Then, as winter thawed, we moved our energies outdoors, digging wholes in the dirt during recess. Our hole got deeper, and our friendship seemed less shallow, too. Then, something terrible happened. The school’s work crew covered our hole, filling it with dirt, my feelings left unsaid and anything he felt for me along with them. The spark of our relationship had died.
I broke his heart. I don’t know why. One day, I just refused to play our little games anymore. I moved to the country, while he and his family remained in the suburbs. I looked him up on MySpace. He still has dimples and he still lives in my old town. Apparently, he’s a bit of a jock, into lacrosse and basketball. I bet he’s still incredibly sweet and exuding that incredible warmth I remember so well. When I try to think about what could have been, I’m crippled by regret. What if I had never moved? Does he think about me, too? These things, of course, I have no control over. Bottom line: It’s not the fact that he had six toes that’s inexplicable about this fling. I never even saw the sextet. If anything, that toe endeared me to him more, even when my girlfriends shrieked their obligatory stream of ‘eeeewwwww’s. There was something there very true in our intentions as we played together, even reminding me of a moral prevalent in adult relationships; one must try to love. I, as a six-year old, lacked the persistence to try to make something positive work; I can’t account for that. What I mostly can’t explain, though, having never truly had a boyfriend, is what the relationship that Al and I had was missing. I sometimes think that what we had was more than met the eye. Perhaps I read too much into our fun again games. But, then again, who is anyone to say what love is, or even try to explain it?
