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A surge of adrenalin, a rush of blood, a thing of innocence and pain that lasts a lifetime I REMEMBER the way the light touched her hair. She turned her head, and our eyes met, a momentary awareness in thatraucous fifth-grade classroom. I felt as though I’d been struck a blow under the heart. Thus began my first love affair. Her name was Rachel, and I mooned my way through grade and high school, stricken at the mere sight of her, tongue-tied in her presence. Does anyone, anymore, linger in the shadows of evening, drawn by the pale light of a window-her window-like some hapless summer insect? That delirious swooning, asexual but urgent and obsessive, that made me awkward and my voice crack, is like some impossible dream now. I know I was so afflicted, but I cannot actually believe what memory insists I did. Which was to suffer. Exquisitely. I would catch sight of her, walking down an aisle of trees to or from school, and I’d become paralyzed. She always seemed so poised, so self-possessed. At home, I’d relieve each encounter, writhing at the thought of my inadequacies. Even so, as we entered our teens, I sensed her affectionate tolerance for me. “Going steady” implied a maturity we still lacked. Her Orthodox Jewish upbringing and my own Catholic scruples imposed a celibate grace that made even kissing a distant prospect, however fervently desired. I managed to hold her once at a dance - chaperoned, of course. Our embrace made her giggle, a sound so trusting that I hated myself for what I’d been thinking. | 
