I fell in love once. I fell in love with my high school math tutor, a senior at the rival school. He was a wide-eyed swimmer with a heart as gold as the medals he wore around his stiff neck. When I had first met him, he was involved with some college girl about two inches taller than I with silken pale yellow strands of woven hair and slender legs that seemed to stretch like elastic bands as they danced across studio floors. I envied her and all of the things that she had acquired upon birth, things I could never amount to. And her lover, the one thing I longed so greatly to acquire, wrote me pages of explained pre-calculus, not love-letters or heartfelt confessions of some heavily concealed infatuation. It was always he that came to aid me in the study room, halfway bent over my left shoulder, his breath gracing vulnerable flesh that so readily embraced it. And his words, like a siren’s sweet song, were the melody to which I shared my first dance with temptation. That dance, so fumbled and inexperienced, lingered on in the nights of my sixteenth summer and faded out just as abruptly as it had begun.