The First

The first boy I ever had feelings for, that didn’t stem from complaisance or an undiluted desire for attention, was also the tallest boy I’d ever met.

Awkward but at the same time intimidating. He had a knack for scaring and alluring all my friends with a look. 

His mood swings were not for the faint of heart–he could go from crass to sweet in a minute. 

Being the object of his affections saved me from the brunt of it, but never left me completely unscathed. 

Even though he grew a thicker beard at nineteen than most men, he tended to leave me hanging in a conversation. Like a kid brooding over something they wouldn’t admit to because they feared someone laughing at them. 

Practically impossible to persuade to speak, it was one morning that we sat on the ground at a field in a park that he asked me to look at him. So I did. He leaned in close and muttered, “You have the prettiest eyes.”

My eyebrows rose to my hairline but before I could say anything he kept going, “Lucky for me I get to stare at yours. You get to stare into sewer water”

I blinked, realizing the man was perfectly serious underneath his self-deprecating chortling. He was laughing but he’d drawn on the gloom. My teasing, reassuring and other attempts at keeping the mood light were met with a single wince. He moved closer to me and surrounded me with his arms, dark green eyes unrelenting and desolate.

At least I had always been able to count on him to hold on to me to weather his storms.