There was a boy in my school

whom I loved as a child.

I didn’t know him at all. He was as far from me as the worries of an eight-year-old

are from the worries of a nine-year old.

He always fell for other girls, dated them like a grown man

switching from slightly older girls to younger ones.

He never kissed them,

just exchanged letters

which he hid inside his desk

and which I read after everybody else had gone home.

I couldn’t speak to him. I couldn’t speak to anyone.

The only time he noticed me was when I played loudly with my friend.

I wore my ugliest sweater that day.

I would have given my collection of plastic turtles

if he would have sent me one of those letters

if he would have asked me

just

one

question.