Boris

I live for crushes: obsession, fantasy, the release of dopamine triggered by nothing more than a mere, evanescent thought.

I fell in love with Boris: a baby-faced, freshman boy in my philosophy class. We never physically touched, but it was unmistakable: the paroxysm upon eye-contact.

He wore opprobrious Oakley transition glasses, and always showed up late dressed in the same, horrifying outfit: a striped Dolce Gabbana shirt and faded Dolce Gabbana jeans (I googled the symbol, DG, on my iPhone to deduce this minutiae). 

He spoke with a thick Russian accent that sounded like pure seduction. 

Boris always had an interesting opinion, but more importantly I silently (but emphatically) agreed with everything he said. 

He hated Plato as much as I hated Plato, and I fucking hated Plato. 

But I really liked Boris. I wanted to kiss his mouth. I thought about it constantly.

We left the exam room at the same time, and I convoyed creepily behind, telepathically professing my love for his beautiful soul and being.

I considered offering him U.S. citizenship–reprieve from his ramshackle, Russian village–in exchange for his pale and fleshy hand in marriage. Stay with me. Forever.

He went left. I went right. But perhaps we will meet again.

More likely I will die alone. 

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