  And all the time, and a lot of the time since, I wondered: Why him? It can't have been that I liked the look of him; it can't only have been physical, not that alone. Can it? Was it? Maybe I loved him. I thought I did. As much as I knew what the word means. How do you ever know? I used to think I would know when it happened. Know immediately, without having to wonder about it. But all I knew for certain was that I couldn't get enough of him. I wanted to be with him all the time.
And yet when I was with him that wasn't enough either. I wanted to look at him and touch him and have him touch me and hear him talk and tell him things and do things together with him. All the time. Day and night. For instance: He would leave. I'd wait on edge for him to come back. People must have thought I had some sort of convulsive twitch because my head and eyes would keep darting towards the door every few seconds. But they couldn't have been mistaken what was going on, when Mr. Wonderful hove into view again, because then I went to pieces.
Lost my grip entirely on what I was supposed to be doing and had eyes for nothing but him until I got used to him being there again. Sounds like a pet dog. And I knew what was happening to me even while it was happening. At first I tried to stop myself. But I couldn't. It was a compulsion, and obsession. Irresistible. After a while I gave up caring how I behaved or who thought what about me.
Trying to hide how I felt was too much strain, and I wasn't succeeding anyway. I was just making a fool of myself. So I let it show, let it happen. I felt easier straightaway. More natural. More in charge of myself. If that was the way I was, I told myself, why pretend anything different? 
