I had my first crush when I was ten years old. He was my aunts’ lover. I’d remember the first time catching them whispering in the middle of the night down the backyard, among the trees, hiding in between the tall shrubs, stealing each moment, kissing and hugging each other as if there was no tomorrow. They were hissing snakes with arms and bodies wrapped around each other as if there’s no tomorrow. I never wanted to be in a wrong place but my timing was right. Hah, I know something. From that time on, I would subject them under careful scrutiny without them knowing. I’d give them those furtive glances, but my mouth is zipped. A bomb is in my hands waiting to explode if they do something against me. I’m waiting for them to remorse and repent from doing those acts in the dark. I could take some bribe if they want me to keep quiet. Their guilt should be hounding them. Day and night. I know during the day, they would act as if nothing happened as if no one knows. But I knew when and where is the tryst. I tried to follow them. Only much later I would see them taking a taxi going out of town, that’s when I couldn’t follow them.
Funny how families have the same taste. He was my crush first before I even saw them in the night.
When I went to see my doctor as an adult, I hated how I’m interrogated for my family’s health condition. I didn’t know that part of the pre diagnosis was inquiring about sickness and diseases in my family such as stroke, high blood pressure, diabetes, cancer, or if I was smoking, or drinking alcohol, in short, he’s trying to establish a pattern on the nature of health history in my family, that would possibly lead in my own health risks. Some diseases are presumed hereditary, so they say. Although, I know this is not an open assertion, but I later learned that a family’s way of life may determine ones future health risk. Particularly in the food they eat, activities they do, the places they go, even relationships they have.
And now they should also add, a taste in men or women.
If I see my crush now he’ll be 62 years old, eight years older than me, a balding guy, a cane on his hands. He’ll not even remember anything about me. After my aunt, countless women must have gone by. Each one not missing his hands and lips. In passing I’ll tell him he used to be my crush, his sudden shot will fluster me a bit and I’d immediately quash how his hands and arms may have touched my waist and hips by paying attention to his decrepit state. I don’t think he’d even care, at ten years old I was skinny and long, dirty, my disheveled brown hair was sticky and straight like wires.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “First Crush.”