Oliver Smith’s teacher has found a fellow. Oliver is unaware of this fact. He believes her rouged cheeks to be the result of maidenly blush and the effeminate scent that rolls off her body in waves to be the effect of some wondrous new shampoo. His eyes behold captivating, previously unimagined territory as she leans over his desk to return a paper in a new and desperately erotic blouse; they widen behind the lenses of his spectacles, focusing in on this dark and inviting, never-before-seen abyss that has previously been hidden behind layers of cotton and wool, deep as his most captivating dreams! Ah, Oliver Smith, what wonders await, what fascinating and riveting new thrills! Deep in his spindly bones, throughout his entire ten – twelve – ten-year-old, nearly pubescent body, Oliver is sure:

She IS the future Mrs. Smith.

And Oliver is desperate to attract her attention; his mind and heart race with alluring possibilities – bouquets, chocolates, poetry, ambush – but the adrenaline of romance is proving too much for him, and his head slowly, slowly lowers to his desk. Another day, Oliver Smith. Another day.