There was this boy named Frank from when I was younger. I met him while he was playing basketball; he was utterly dreamy and all the girls liked him. He was the only son of a fisherman and a lady that brought my family fresh fish everyday. For parents living ever so modestly, he was a strapping young chap who had bright eyes and a mean three pointer.
I had a huge crush on him… and when you’re thirteen, that means love. For you at least.
One day my mom asked me to buy cooking oil after realizing that the amount of sausage we had for lunch was too many for the frying. On my way out, I saw him and his friends walking home after their morning practice. When I passed by him, one of his friends pushed him to me. Our shoulders bumped and I dropped my bottle of cooking oil. He picked it up as fast as he could and handed it back to me. He smiled and apologized for his friend’s behavior; I smiled back and said it was okay. I also secretly thanked his raudy friend.
A day later, I found out that a neighbor who was around my age wanted to meet me; not as a friend but she wanted to size up her competition. I declined. I didn’t want to stoop down her level and she was haplessly one of those young girls who would grow up later on as disgustingly promiscuous. I was out of her league.
While she was simmering in her own vat of putrid jealousy, me and Frank enjoyed our days staring from a distance; I was much too young for love. And according to my cousins, he was much too old for me – funny, that for a thirteen year old, seventeen is apparently too old. Those type of encounters ran until late May, after that he was sent away for college and I never saw him again.
If I met him again today, I’d walk pass him. I can’t even remember how he looked. But I wonder, would he still know my face?