Crush
By Elizabeth Smith In sophomore choir, a boy strummed his guitar, the tones skipping up the stairs two at a time. As he pricked the strings, his mouth softened to a smile—his cheeks ripe, pale peaches. I thought I loved him: I baked pie, asked him to Christmas formal. His mother photographed me in my borrowed gown beside her son. We danced like marionettes and stomped side to side, our sweaty palms touching. He visited me at college once. We ate hot dogs and talked about being missionaries and who else we’d become one day—I thought maybe he loved me. We both did preach, he in Minneapolis, I in Lisbon. His mother embraced me at his homecoming party. He waved, and his mouth hardened into a smile. His cheeks were cold, clenched fists. I thought I loved him and he loved me, but I didn’t make pie, and he left that guitar hanging, dusty on the wall.
