Outside of a popular dim sum place on Pender Street in Vancouver, I run into my first crush. He was my seatmate in fifth grade, always baby-powdered and fair-skinned and nice-smelling. Gentle, not rowdy like the other boys our age, and a bit of a crybaby. Large eyes and long lashes. We borrowed each others’ stuff — his favorites of mine were the imported gadgets I received from abroad: a mechanical eraser and an electronic dictionary where we sometimes played Hangman. After the school year ended he transferred somewhere else and I never saw him again. We lost touch.
We’re visiting Vancouver for the weekend and I’m walking out of the dim sum restaurant with Gio. Eighteen years, in a wholly different country, and out of nowhere there’s my first crush on the sidewalk. We’re no longer in school uniforms. We’re flabbier around the edges, laugh lines are beginning to assert themselves, but I’d know his face from anywhere. It lights up like it used to as he sees me and exclaims my name. He sees Gio, and apparently knows him, too. Apparently his family moved to Canada when we were younger. Apparently he lives in Vancouver.
Apparently he has a boyfriend now.
TINY WORRIES 