He was an older man: weathered by worry and with soft brown hair that fell just to his shoulders. Every full moon he’d turn into a rampaging beast that had to be contained lest it hurt someone. This was a common theme for my crushes, and I positively ached to soften the emo energy that leapt out of the pages when he talked about the being-a-monster thing.
I invented a character. She was like me, but had longer hair, and then shorter. She wore prairie dresses and swore like a sailor and was thin but still had a nice rack and she was frankly also a crush of mine, in the way your best self maybe can be, sometimes, if you’re a little gay.
Anyway. They never succeeded in getting together. The yearning, though. That’s really what it was all about.
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