I read too much. I wish that meant I was going half-blind, Goethe's Faust hunched over a dusty desk encircled by skyscrapers of tottering books, but no. I read too much into a person's behavior, their choice of words and cadence that gives me pause, making me wish life was a tape you could play back in reflective solitude. What does it mean when he offered me his sweater in a low sweet voice, so different from his usual cocky and resonant tone? And minutes later he is mocking me, imitating my glum expression, the way I pull up my collar in defeat. On the phone he's gruff and insisting he is doing me a favor. "This is what I could have done." And, "This is what I did." I'm on the verge of tears. Another pattern emerging. "I'm being a baby, I'm sorry, but this is all so frustrating."

And Izzie tells me I will get tired of all this real quick. She is probably right. I have no expectations--only a desire that sets my cheeks ablaze. I fear incineration. I need someone to dump a bucket of cold water over my head. Shock me straight.

D.L., third grader and witness to my prolonged heartache, said to me, "Maybe he's mean to you because he doesn't want you to know how much he likes you." Bow before the insightful nature of the eight-year-old.

"Maybe on the last day when you're leaving he'll grab you and say, 'I was so mean! I love you!!'. And he will nevereverever let you go."

backtrack ; to the end