First Love

 Whether she felt the same way about me, I will never really know. I never expressed my feelings. For four years we had been together, as friends—that is, well, not even as friends, rather as classmates, throughout high school. That was a happy time, at least for some of us. My life was filled with my family, music, movies, books, and school, while Balaguer’s regime kept persecuting and assassinating the dissidents with impunity.
     We all adored Mrs. Velázquez, our beloved mathematics teacher. We, the boys, had sexual fantasies about the Ramírez sisters, our Humanities and Science teachers, respectively. And of course, we could not take our eyes off the thighs of Alba, Gisela, and Valentina. That was the time of the mini-skirt. Some girls wore them to extremes.  
     Carla and I used to chat a lot about academic matters. In some ways, she revolved around me because I was a dedicated student and she needed help with some subjects. But that was it. She was not attractive in the flashy, provocative way that some of the other girls were. She was simply graceful and classy. I yearned for her companionship all the time; to have her in front of me; to listen to her mellow voice; to see myself reflected in her dreamy dark eyes; to observe her slender hands; and, while we talked, perhaps imagine that I was caressing her long black hair. She was a few years my senior, which might explain why I assumed she was, as we say now, out of my league. After secondary school, I never saw her again. 
     A former classmate whom I saw recently told me she had emigrated to the United States and that she is now a police officer in New York City. It’s difficult for me to imagine such a delicate girl being a cop in such a rough place. On the funny side, many times I have felt the urge to drive the eight hundred kilometres that separate us, pull over on Fifth Avenue, smash a showcase’s glass, break the law, and be arrested. Provided Carla is the arresting officer that will be fine by me.
 
© William Almonte Jiménez, 2016