In response to this.
Reading through the Eggers' story, I recalled love in it's sunniest form. Seeing her glide past in halls, or exercising the high privilege of conversation; her tolerating my dorky stutters and squeaky cadence. How could such a perfect creature talk to me? Or even acknowledge me? Eventually she began to answer my self-doubt with alternating blasts of indifference and malice. Her girlish laugh, like her phone calls or mischievous glances, became infrequent reminders of school days not so tensely solemn. Anything could trigger an outburst. A poorly formed comment, a glancing touch, a joke. I was too fond of jokes.
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