Delmar tore up turf while Myrna scooped up kitty litter. He threw pigskins while she claimed Charlotte’s Web on her list of favorite books. Every day he sat in the center of the lunchroom, surrounded by activity that had nothing to do with food, while she remained on the periphery of coolness, slurping cream of tomato soup from a Thermos.

Delmar moved his head from side to side to catch sight of Myrna through the shifting bodies of the cafeteria. She looked content in her isolation, resting one hand on the page of her book while the other raised steaming soup to her lips. The sunlight through the windows behind Myrna surrounded her in a glow, like she was circled in bright yellow highlighter. This girl, here. Take note.

Emotions don’t need explanation—if they did, they’d be rational and not a sensation that erupted within him like Mentos in Diet Coke. So Delmar remained satisfied with his infatuation, inexplicable as it was, as long as no one made him take it further than lunchroom lust.