Fluttered

My puppy crush on Aunt Lizzie ended before I reached puberty. She was as charming and pretty as ever, but I no longer squirmed when she leaned over with black yoga pants on or showed cleavage at the top of her signature white blouses. I admit I dreamed about her sometimes, but nothing too naughty. If I stroked myself while picturing her supple form, I did not see her face. Instead, the women in my fantasies had the same smile and laughter as Naomi. During freshman year, my guilt over the way I saw her led me to stop reaching for her hand myself. I began pulling my own hand away from her in public, even as our peers took for granted that we were a couple since middle school. But we still weaved our fingers together while lying together on my bed, and as her frustration mounted over my new coldness toward her at school, she began wanting more than my hand in her hand.