She couldn't help but smile to herself - a giddy smile, the sort that usually accompanies an excited clenching of the fists, or a small, ridiculous-looking dance. 'Girlish infatuation' they all called it, but what did they know? They'd all been married for years, and love for them had eventually evolved into friendship, without their realizing it. How could anything that felt this good be something so shallow as infatuation? She brushed off their comments and sank deeper into this glorious feeling.

Every conversation with him felt good, albeit unnecessary. Just to stand before him, take him in with her eyes, as he did the same with his own, made her giddy. His words were her alcohol; they intoxicated her, until she was not so concerned with what he was saying to her, but merely the fact that he was speaking to her. Somehow, despite her drunk condition, she maintained conversation.

And now she sat at a table in the cafeteria, her girlfriends chattering to an inattentive ear, their voices merely birds calling to each other from outside her private window. There he was, his gorgeous brown eyes caught up in a laugh, his voice musical, his every movement fluid and entrancing. His whole being seemed amazing, and she marveled at her ability to belong to such a creature - for surely he could not belong to her. It just wasn't right.

After their dates, he would walk her to her door, and they would stand there, awkwardly, each wanting to prolong this moment of companionship, yet wanting the next moment more. And then the next moment would come, and he would kiss her, and she would feel it - the strength with which he owned her. He loved more powerfully than she, and she submitted gracefully (she liked to think). With each kiss she became more his and less herself.

As the months progressed, their relationship relaxed, no longer so nervous about impressing the other. Dates happened less and less often, and sometimes he would be late, or forget entirely. But it was all right. He had an excuse. She usually didn't mind. Mostly, though, she didn't want to mind. So she pretended, and it became all right.

The subject of the forbidden came up, tentatively at first, with hushed voices and blushing cheeks. She pushed him away; "Not yet," she said, and he consented. But the subject came up more and more often, and "not yet" didn't hold as much power as it once had. He became impatient. "When?" he demanded (not asked), and she looked away. He thought she loved him. She'd thought she had, too.

She felt giddy less and less often; now when she watched him, it was with a steady, judging gaze, and no longer with the dreamy quality her eyes once held. Conversations started to become dull and repetitive. His voice didn't intoxicate her like it used to, like a drug that no longer gave her a high. Now the only time she felt okay with him was when they kissed, and she was reminded of how powerfully he owned her. And it was in this time that "not yet" was not uttered, and what was seen as an act of love and passion became an act of submission. Now, more than ever did he own her, and she belonged completely to him.

She saw less and less of herself in everything she did, instead looking to him to confirm her very being. And what she saw annoyed and aggravated her; his brown eyes were dull and lifeless, his voice heavy, his movements awkward with the burden of teenagerhood. She mourned the action that had confined her to such a creature, but still convinced herself that it was all right. She didn't want to mind.

She became moody and pensive, often lashing out at her girlfriends, who chattered warily, and, like scattering birds, eventually flew away. Now, with no one except him, she felt trapped, cornered, like some terrified animal. Still, he kissed her, and still, she belonged to him.

Finally she couldn't take it. His voice disgusted her, and she wouldn't allow him to kiss her. She felt a tiny piece of herself come back, and it empowered her, however small it was.

Continuing in this way, confrontation could only be avoided for so long. Finally she stood before him stubbornly, determined to finally fight for herself. "No more," she said, and he became angry. How dare she try to take herself back, when she so obviously belonged to him? She became angry too, and voices rose in a eruption of emotion. He wanted her, but she wanted herself more, and his love was not so powerful as she thought. She won, and was herself again. Later, though, she cried, mourning all the parts of herself that she had lost.

Alone and herself, she began seeking out her girlfriends, wishing to make amends. They flocked back to her, grateful to see their old friend back, though she was different somehow. She was freer, and happier, and laughed easier. Sometimes she'd see him in the halls, and it was like pouring salt on the wound, but the pain lessened over time. Some day, she may even be able to forgive him. But not yet.

Amongst the catching up of old times, someone asked her was being in love felt like. The room went quieter, each girl straining to hear the age-old, fairytale answer. But she shook her head, and laughed. "Can't tell you," she replied to their eager ears, "It was only girlish infatuation."