He “CRACKED” me up

My first love arrived on a banana seat Sting Ray bike, as if he was Christopher Columbus discovering the New World. Chuckling young children were playing tic-tac-toe nearby, a frail old man with a long white beard wearing suspenders was raking leaves across the street, and right above me, two mockingbirds danced their mating game, all without my attention. A gathering of the first fallen leaves scattered beneath the 20 inch wheels as he approached. The discarded foliage looked tiresome against the crumbling asphalt. “Hi Barbara!” With the gravity of his voice, I awakened, looking up and into his eyes. “Hi Anthony!” I said curiously, looking at him like an artist seeing Michelangelo's "David" for the first time.

The way Anthony's charcoal eyes burned into mine was reminiscent of something I didn’t know I craved. Not unlike the heroine addict’s first high, I was hooked. How did Anthony and I both know of our mutual desire with only a glance and a greeting? As sixth grade classmates, we had known each other before that day, but without significance. Emerging like a previously dormant wild flower, my newly found arousal washed everything else away; the pain, the bruises, the shame. The world was now beautiful and it would continue to be until he got a little too close. I proudly wore Anthony's ID bracelet for almost a year, until I dumped him for his best friend Phil. Shame on me for even being able to admit, I never once thought about how he felt when I broke his heart. My drug of choice, Anthony, was no longer working for me. My fix became Phil; for a month, maybe two. Like with all substance abuse, more and more is needed to get that high. But I only know this now looking back.