Desire

Every day when I came home from school, I sat in my room and desired Sharon. I would imagine that we were in a basement, crowded onto a loveseat, watching an old thriller. Then, without warning, Sharon would take my warm hand in hers; I would reach over and run my fingers slowly through her silky hair; and we'd lean closer, closer, finally pulling together for a passionate kiss. She would place her hand at the back of my head and pull me closer, as if she were feeding and could not get enough. Afterwards, we'd discuss biology and chemistry and the history of Western thought, and. . .

Then I'd scold myself: 'God, Alfie. . .Even your fantasies are nerdy.' And, of course, they could never come true. A little, wiry, greasy-haired geek like me could never hope to lock lips with a beautiful woman with silky auburn hair. Beautiful women with silky auburn hair liked the captain of the football team, other assorted Hercules-types, and billionaires. Then I'd realize I had been drooling on my biology homework, with my right hand clutching a ball of Play-Doh so hard that it was squeezing through the cracks of my fingers. My grades were starting to slip; I'd better forget Sharon until summer. Then I'd call her.