17 years old:         
         
          I walk the long way to class just so maybe I could pass him by. Maybe smile. Maybe say “Hi”. His hair is so black and I never reach my hand out to touch it, because to touch that hair is all I want to do. We go to a movie. I want so badly to say something witty, so I end up not saying anything at all. Surely, I’m going to end up saying something stupid. Inevitably, I do. I watch the little animated girl on the screen twist up her toes and bite her lower lip. I sit still in my chair, wide eyed, feeling just like her.

21 years old:         
         
         What an amazing night. It was nothing particularly different. I just enjoyed myself. When he and I were dancing, I got an overwhelming urge to sink my teeth into his neck. Alcohol. That must be the explanation. I control myself.
         The next morning I look through my camera at pictures from the night before. The one of him catches my breath, and lets me know that I’m in trouble.

22 years old:
         
         In class, I wear my Mona Lisa smile. I let my eyes follow the lines in his face for a short moment, trying to convince myself that I don’t find him attractive. It doesn’t work. I’m 17 again. Wanting so bad to say something witty, and being so afraid of saying something stupid, so when he speaks to me I respond with non-verbal gestures. My eyes find the gold ring on his left hand that they’ve avoided. I thought once that perhaps the ring was for aesthetics. Looking at it now, that thought seems silly. Even in my mind, nothing about this feeling can end well. So in class I glue my eyes to the work at hand, and quietly don my secret Mona Lisa smile.