He was eighteen years old, when she was eight and all she ever remembered was having fantasies about him paying her a compliment.
She had navigated all of her movements towards attaining this one, ever-elusive goal. She followed him around like a faithful puppy, bought his drinks from the kitchen even when he didn't ask for them and laughed at all of his jokes.
And finally here she was…
Perched next to him on top of a park bench in the midst of a warm summer afternoon. She alternated her time by glancing periodically at the peonies she had gathered and sneaking a peek at his profile, which was at least three feet above hers. He looked down at her and smiled.
“You, kiddo, will break many-a-heart when you’re older”.
She couldn't’t help but feel let down. It probably showed on her face too, but she was clever enough to bow her head so that her bangs covered her eyes in a shroud of ebony foliage. She had been longing for something simple, nice, warm…something articulated just for her. Just one sentence that she could pocket and keep forever. A quote about her eyes perhaps, or her smile, but this….well this wasn’t even really a compliment.
It was nothing really, just the promise of something …someday.
She had navigated all of her movements towards attaining this one, ever-elusive goal. She followed him around like a faithful puppy, bought his drinks from the kitchen even when he didn't ask for them and laughed at all of his jokes.
And finally here she was…
Perched next to him on top of a park bench in the midst of a warm summer afternoon. She alternated her time by glancing periodically at the peonies she had gathered and sneaking a peek at his profile, which was at least three feet above hers. He looked down at her and smiled.
“You, kiddo, will break many-a-heart when you’re older”.
She couldn't’t help but feel let down. It probably showed on her face too, but she was clever enough to bow her head so that her bangs covered her eyes in a shroud of ebony foliage. She had been longing for something simple, nice, warm…something articulated just for her. Just one sentence that she could pocket and keep forever. A quote about her eyes perhaps, or her smile, but this….well this wasn’t even really a compliment.
It was nothing really, just the promise of something …someday.
She was heartbroken, utterly desolate, as she flashed a cheeky smile up at him.
“But I don’t want to break hearts.”
“You will. Every girl wants to break hearts when she grows up.”
She decided then and there that she never wanted to be noticed or praised.
Never wanted to have this power.
Never wanted to deal with hearts.
“But I don’t want to break hearts.”
“You will. Every girl wants to break hearts when she grows up.”
She decided then and there that she never wanted to be noticed or praised.
Never wanted to have this power.
Never wanted to deal with hearts.
Hearts were a messy and tiresome business and she wanted no part in it. Ironically enough, the more she denied her emotions, the clearer it became to her that she could break hearts if she chose to. That sentence stuck in her head like a salacious spell cast in skin “Every girl wants to break hearts when she grows up”. Did this mean that every girl was wicked or did it mean that every girl was weak? Why did love always require that something or someone 'break' or 'fall' or 'die'? Why were there no happy synonyms?
No, she wanted no part in the ‘heart business’, she didn’t want to 'break them' or 'capture them' or 'change them' or 'keep them'. Most of all she was scared that she might begin to like it if she started. That she too might begin to derive the same perverse pleasure she had seen streak the faces of so many girls her age. The coy glances, the batting of eye-lids, the perfectly timed flashes of pearly teeth…all designed and choreographed meticulously to break hearts.
Killing with kindness, they call it.
She couldn’t want that could she? The facade of emotion to mask emotions that were already hiding from themselves.
But a part of her still thought she might be good at it if she ever tried it.
She might even learn to like it.
She couldn’t want that could she? The facade of emotion to mask emotions that were already hiding from themselves.
But a part of her still thought she might be good at it if she ever tried it.
She might even learn to like it.
This part was, predictably, the heart.
I (28-year-old anonymous man who also posts on My paradoxical utopia) was in love, at the age of 10 or so, with the quarterback for my high school football team. My family went to a church party at his parents' house and I followed him around unceasingly. He left at a later hour to meet his girlfriend. Emotions running high, I left a note on his pillow that said "David, why did you leave? You are a dumbbell." I later got a barefoot kick to the mouth by the younger stepbrother who called me a "gaylord" at a later church party. I was so tearful for the rest of the night that I ended up having to lie down in the parents' bedroom, much to my own parents' chagrin.
ReplyDeleteHad no idea eight year olds had anything more than awe and respect for handsome older boys. I mean they aren't old enough to be called 'young chicks'.
ReplyDeleteAgain, being heartbroken isn't a long term ailment. What with anti-depressants, sleeping pills and varnish being so easily obtainable. The tyranny of the pretty is nearly over. No need for the less fortunate to wish for them to jump up and die on their brooms.
Thank you Nikhil, most helpful as always.
ReplyDelete