Now, isn't that a good way to end a paragraph? Haven't I manufactured a nice introduction, intriguing, pointing right at the subject of my narrative? I just bet you're saying, handsome reader, "Please, tell us more about Allison, and why you fell in love with her." I can hear you as you read this, because you're saying what I want you to say. "And please," I'm sure your asking, "please make the colors white and brown symbols, make them mean something- take this story and turn it into art that transcends mere humanity." Okay, just for you.

Within a few meetings with Allison, I was attracted to her. She was pretty, and clean, and charming, and all those bare minimums of attraction. She laughed at my jokes, which was a plus, and there was the taboo element. She was dating a friend of mine, which made us close, because we shared him- though I'm certain she demanded things that I didn't! But because the safety belt that was their relationship existed, we were free to become close without fearing a crash into the despicable brick wall of love. Do you follow?

Of course you do. You're reading what I'm writing and you're nodding your head, precious reader. You are thinking about your own relationships- how it's so much easier to be comfortable around your friend's paramour's then it is around unattached people, and how much more easy it is around their spouses than their paramours. Your recalling the number of times you've said to yourself, "Gosh, what a swell person, I only wish I could find someone like that." And since you don't have to risk possible rejection later, you give this person all of your friendship, and you feel close, like siblings.

When I say I was attracted to her, I am admitting nothing untoward, but something quite necessary to falling in love. I defy all the nay-sayers who demand love is not about the way a person looks. I agree- it is quite often the case that a person will love someone to whom they are no longer attracted. But I insist the initial attraction is crucial to love. And it has to be a sincere attraction, not merely, "Wow, whatta nice pair," or, "Gee whiz, he's gotta decent package." I mean the kind of attraction that you find defies definition.

Now, I've gotten you into my arms with this theory, haven't I? You, sumptuous reader, who've known love a time or two in your life, are thinking that for all my forwardness, I'm pretty much right, right? You've read other books, sure, but you haven't read the be all end all, otherwise you wouldn't be reading this. And you will read others after this, rest assured, for what I'm going to tell you, despite your desiring otherwise, is about Allison, and me, and not about love itself. But I have got you- asserting my theories, insisting they are the absolute truth- it's all very indulgent of me, don't you think?

Allison had shoulder length hair, and it would be excessive to say I worshipped her, but it might seem as such when I describe this to you. You see, after finding someone attractive, whether it's in their look or their personality or their accomplishment, one usually puts that person on a pedestal of sorts, and regards them with awe. They become unapproachable. Palms sweat, dinners go uneaten, day-to-day life is a heady blur and all that other stuff you read about in the usually texts. I went through this too, with Allison. But it was easier, as I said, because she was my friend's girl, to use a paltry phrase. So we could talk and whenever I was alone I would think about her, or the three or four other girls I was currently attracted to, and the awe would increase.

And this is where a crush separates itself from actual love. Notice, noble reader, that I don't say "true" love, because that would suggest there's such a thing as false love, which there isn't. What about that bastard that cheated on me, what about that bitch that stole my car, slept with my friends? What about that jerk that left me and stole my stereo as he waltzed out the door? What about that slut? What about that penis-brained loser? Yes, well, love is love, and you were attracted to them all once, admit it, and if you didn't love them, then you loved yourself enough to be proud you'd snagged 'em. Do you follow my meaning? Someone loved someone in that mess, so it wasn't false by any means. It just facilitated sex, which gets boring when all the whipped cream's gone, to make an analogy.

My, you're still here, even though I went off on a tangent and didn't mention crushes at all! How wonderful. You must really like me. And for that, I like you too. A crush, I was going to say, is when the attraction is never requited- the pedestal never falls. Did you know that requited also means, as well as "returned, also "avenged"? That's right, you naughty little reader you, those people you loved who loved you back where nothing more than victims of your horrible selfish pride. I will explain:

I was attracted to Allison, and able to like her much because of my friend who was a safety net between us, as I said. But, I knew my friend better than Allison did, and I knew he would do something to eventually separate them. So you see, I had safety and hope all at the same time. I would go over to her house in the summer when I knew my friend wasn't there, because he was off tilting at other feminine windmills, and I would talk to her as she sat on the porch swing (how romantic!) in her white t-shirt, and sometimes she sat close enough that I could feel her hair on my bare, tank-topped shoulder. It was bliss. In retrospect, I suppose I should have cherished those moments more, and done all in my power to maintain their possibility, by ensuring my friend remained as net! But I was young, and foolish, and believed meddling unaccountably wrong, and besides, silly reader, I've already taken enough liberties with you, and should stick to the subject!

It was a cool summer, and Allison was in the sort of in-between of adolescent's, when girls are through with being girls but not quite up to being up to women, and boys like me think they have facial hair but still cherish comic books. Innocence on the verge of rampant sexuality, I think is a phrase others would use to describe it. On those summer dusks I knew her eyes were brown, and she knew what my eyes looked like too. We were buddies, we were pals, were the kind of friends that men and women frequently can't be because of all the other things they usually want from one another.

Patient reader, I am reaching the point of my tale, if I may be so antiquarian as to call it that. But let me mention what must be surely on your mind, the one element to a love story that involves more than two people which I haven't yet mentioned. Jealousy is foul, is evil, has eight letters, and smells like the sweat rolling off the back of a hairy truck driver, waiting outside a diner to mop the parking lot with prom date's face. Now, what prom date takes his lady of the evening to a truck stop? Not a one, but this isn't about accurate analogies, it's about love, and Allison, and I'm telling you, I was not in the least bit jealous of my friend, because honestly I didn't know what he had that I didn't have, I was naive, and thankfully so.

It was raining. I'd ridden my bike through as many puddles as lie between my house and the white one in which the Bakers lived. I didn't shiver, sitting on her porch, talking about sweaters and dancing and really all the other courtship rituals we never went through, because I was sturdy, the rain was as uncommonly warms as the summer cool, and I was with her. And she was dressed in brown- it matched her eyes; inglorious to you, firm reader, unless you've fallen into my mode, or have known what I was knowing then, that even in the dullest of gunny sacks she'd be a vision. I'm an inadequate story teller, because I can't describe brown in a way that will seem dazzling, so you will trust me on this. The phone rang. We heard it outside, over the rain. It rang twice. Allison Baker stood up, her skirt twirling as she went to the front door, and I sighed as I gazed at the friendship bracelet she'd let me put on her ankle.

Aren't these just the greatest words, fascinated reader? I sighed, I gazed, I did all the things you read about, get disgusted at, beg for more of. Shall I tell you my heart beat loud in my ears whenever I saw her, that I was short of breath, and that I had scratched her name a thousand times on every note pad while I talked on the phone? Sure, but other names too- I wasn't quite in love, yet. And besides the gazing and sighing and scribbling, I also belched to make myself laugh, watched acne wreck havoc on my forehead, stole hubcaps, peeked at girlie magazines in the 7-11; I mean, this was no magic spell, this was merely life, and mine was as pretty/ugly as anyone else's, thanks not to love but just to the fact that when an embryonic mess spat out of my mom the chiefest component didn't die.

Allison screamed, and of course, I ran inside dripping wet and muddy from the knees down to boot. Allison screamed again, threw the phone against the wall, cursed, saying words like fucker and shithead and asshole, words I'd never heard come out of her beautiful mouth before. She was crying, and snot was caked on those lips, and she smeared it on her brown sweater, and didn't seem to notice me as she knocked over the stand the phone sat on, then grabbed books and threw them at the wall, tearing the paper and putting holes in the sheet rock. It was an ugly display of childishness, a real temper-tantrum. Her face was red, and puffy, her hair was matted, she was altogether hideous to behold. And I fell in love with her at that instant.

What! Yes! I did it again, just like in the first paragraph, I know, but I want to tell this effectively, and I don't care if it's corny or trite. You, persistent reader, have gone this far- let the one's who've stopped by now be ever envious of your fortitude. Allison was making quite a display of herself, and I was embarrassed just watching her. Such a little girl. But she'd fallen off that pedestal on which I'd placed her! This single most important even had finally occurred, and she was no longer an unattainable goddess! She had finally become human again. But.

"B-B-Brian wants to date someone else!" she screamed, her voice reedy, cracked, and broken by sobs. Did I take advantage of the situation, or, to put it in loftier terms, did I rush to her side, and comfort her? Did I, you ask, hopeful reader, did I put her head on my shoulder, and say, there there, everything's gonna be allright, stroking her hair? Did I caress her back, rubbing to discover if her bra was the kind that unsnapped in back or in front- in case I needed to know? Of course not! Others have been kind, others have been cruel, and still others have been used as much as they think they were using- but I just stood there, mute in my love, and said nothing. Secretly, I reveled in her anguish, not because I'm cruel, but because there was no friend stopping me anymore. I could make my advances, based on our already strong friendship, and after one thing led to another, we would be together for life. A man, or a woman, I imagine, doesn't wish ultimate happiness for the person he loves, or infinite ease, or any of that nonsense they shovel to you, incredulous reader. All he wants is to be with that person, forever and ever, whether it makes them both happy, sad, or crazy. Love is selfish that way, and I'm no different than anyone else.

Eventually Allison disappeared upstairs, presumably to her room. I beat a retreat, and got home in time for prime-time television. The next time I saw Allison, she was preoccupied with readying herself for a date, this one with someone else- neither me, nor my friend, her ex. I was in love, yes, but love really is the downhill side of attraction, and when it's realized it's forgiving, and patient. And forever. I still love Allison, and, even though I watched her get married in white (years later), and even though I'm married myself and quite in love with my wife, I'm always reminded of those inexorable feelings whenever I see any one wear brown the way Allison wore brown that day.

Are you satisfied, relieved reader? Wasn't that a good story, for all my placating, and fussing about? Well, I thank you too, for no one exists without a reader, whether it's literal or figurative. I hope you're smiling now, because that's what I've written, and if you can use any of this while you live, then so be it. And remember- no one, and nothing, is ever loved that doesn't love back. You can put that one on a bumper sticker!