Happy Families no.22 Print

I was in the 5th grade when I had my first boyfriend. Z was little and cute and he asked me to “go around with him” and I said yes even though I was absolutely indifferent to him in every way. The next day as were walking to the school bus in the afternoon, Z shyly took my hand in his in the first romantic gesture I had ever received. His hand was dry. Really dry. Like scaly lizard snakeskin alligator crumpled paper that had been sitting on the desert floor for a week while the Santa Anas blew day and night dry. I think it was the only time in my life that I was so repulsed by another person’s physicality that I felt the need for violence. So naturally I immediately dropped his hand and kicked him in the balls. That was that. Romance was dead and dry hands were not to be suffered Violent reactions aside (except for the ones that play out in my head), I feel like I haven’t changed much from that matter-of-fact little girl, but as an adult of course I feel bad for the boy who had the misfortune of choosing 10 year old me to go around with and had his heart broken and balls bruised so abruptly one day later Although I’m sure Z got over it fairly quickly as children will, I’d still like to think that somewhere out there, there exists an alternate universe in which a little boy had sweaty palms instead of dry ones and a little girl didn’t mind that so much and they “went around” together for a month or two in the 5th grade