Flirt!

     He stood tall at the easel, intent on his project with the focus of a master. Blue paint was smeared across his nose, another sign that we were in the presence of greatness. With an oversized shirt put on backwards, he brushed his wavy white-blonde hair past his eyes with annoyance, his colorful fingers twisting the strands behind his ears. 

     I was fixated. 

     Alex was adorable to me, and I was caught staring. My best friend, Cherie, bluntly and loudly called me out: “Gera! Stop staring at Alex!” My ears and cheeks turned as red as the paint Alex had brushed onto his craft paper. The whole kindergarten class knew I was twitterpated by the only boy in class who knew how to say the Pledge of Allegiance by heart. 

     This was my first lesson in flirtation. 

      It was actually an anti-lesson on what not to do: one does not stare obviously at boys, only furtively. At five years old, Cherie, who had four older teenage sisters, was honing her craft of boy catching and I was her conscripted pupil. My older sisters had already snagged their men.  They were engaged or married, so the days of observing the Krahe wielding wiles was a bygone era.  Her expertise and guidance were sorely needed.
 

      Flirting didn’t come naturally to me.  I’ve always been a front door kind of person, saying what I think or, in the case of Alex, making it blatantly obvious what’s on my mind - I’m fair skinned and blush a tell-tale color.  Apparently, my ways were not how female flirtation optimally operated.  Astute, Cherie saw my inept and underdeveloped skills as a viable Eliza Doolittle opportunity.  Extended enrichment lessons in boy catching, therefore, came primarily from Cherie, who enthusiastically took me under her adept tutelage. 

In case you're wondering, Alex is the boy in the middle of the top row in the blue shirt.  💕