His dad’s name was Moses. I can’t remember his mother’s name. But she was watching me through her glasses with the dangling silver chain. Her glasses set into her face framed with the beauty-shop helmet of auburn hair.

Saslowsky, my boyfriend, had the same color hair. And beard. And big brown eyes and freckles. Jewish and freckled, and I was so madly in love with him. I was so in love with being his, being The One, being the blonde girl he brought home to Fair Lawn, New Jersey.

So in love with him that I would have crawled through pools of broken Manischewitz bottles, or slept on the plastic-covered sofa, or walked his father’s mail delivery route through the jungle of the Bronx.

But I would not, could not, eat the chopped liver she was spooning out. One plop at a time. Saying he looked skinny. Looking me straight in the eyes as she passed a plate my way. Daring me to prove my love.

I lead writing workshops in the Bay Area, and spend much of my so-called free time writing. To support my avocation (and my family) I sell residential real estate in San Francisco; for more about that visit RealEstateTherapy.org or CynthiaCummins.com.