She wonders who I really am, where I've been, and which angel delivered me from her dreams. Then she sees my new shoes, my cool shoes: black lace-ups with pointy toes and high tapered heels, the kind all the Rock and Roll stars are wearing. Her heart pounds as she bites her lower lip and locks her eyes on to mine.

My gaze stuns her. Love.

Dropping her bowl of candy, she tears the mask from my face and sees that it's me, Kenny Burke, the tall skinny kid who walks the same route with her to school each day, the one with the stupid flattop hair cut and the cowlick, the same one who smiles like Elvis, only she's never noticed because she's never looked at me for more than a second. But that doesn't matter. None of that stuff matters. She kisses me, our lips fitting like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. A crisp autumn breeze whirls around us, bonding our souls forever. Love. So simple. So perfect.

At our first stop, Dad objected when I presented him and Mom with my choice of footwear. "Too impractical," he said. "Not enough support." But Mom, bless her, was less practical: "Let him at least try them on, Larry. What can it hurt?"

Dad, the poor, clueless man in black wing tip shoes. How he ever got a hip chick like Mom was beyond me. Then Mom whispered, thinking I couldn't hear, "Maybe once he sees how silly they look, he'll drop it." No wonder she fell for a guy wearing black wing tips! I huffed at this, the right side of my lip slipping into an Elvis-snarl. It just happened; I had no control over it.

I found an ally in the salesman -- his smile evaded my parents' eyes as he took the display shoe from my hand and placed it back on the shelf. Next, he measured my feet. This turned him against me. My feet are narrow. This always makes shoe salesmen sweat.

"That shoe only comes in D-widths; he really needs a B," the traitor said, winning a nod from my dad.

I insisted on trying them anyway, and, grudgingly, the salesman disappeared. Moments later, he brought out the shoes. They were black, shiny and smooth. Very cool. I put them on. They were stiff. They dug into my ankles and flopped off my heels when I walked. I tried a shorter pair, but these pinched my toes and flopped off my heels. I didn't care. I wanted them. Dad said, "No." Mom agreed.

Four stores and eight more failed attempts later, Dad finally put his wing tips down and demanded that I wear a pair of "solid shoes with good support," forcing on me a pair of brown, square-toed, low-heeled "dork" shoes. I tried imagining Zorro in brown clodhoppers, but even in my thoughts, he refused to wear them.

On the way back to the car, my brothers reminded our parents to check out the costumes at the Ben Franklin. There was a "50% off!" sign in the window. Greg chose "Batman," and Danny, "The Incredible Hulk." I checked out the selection, hoping to find some way of salvaging my plan, but all the costumes bore brittle plastic expressions. I told myself that all Michelle would see were the eyes of some geek wearing dorky brown shoes. Nothing would change.

I gave up. We walked back to the car and Mom told me to button my jacket. I didn't; I refused to admit that it was too windy and cold for the Halloween I envisioned.

We were almost home when common sense dealt me a blow. I was too old for costumes, and Michelle was too old to fall for a guy wearing one. Then, like a scene from a James Dean movie, I saw myself casually hanging out on the curb in front of Michelle's house in my Levi's, collar turned up on my jean jacket, thumbs hooked in my front pockets. When she comes to the door for the other Trick-or-Treaters -- the little kids -- there I am. Cool. Very cool. Her eyes connect with mine, and I smile, slowly, ever so slowly. She sees me. The real me. James Dean. Elvis. Me.

Love.

I stared into the window, studying my reflection, practicing, perfecting my Elvis-smile. Just as we hit the Morgan Grove city limits, it started to rain. Then it poured.

*****

A poet once wrote: "There are two pains in every heart: wanting and letting go / I felt them both for her today, but she'll never know." When I read that poem in college, some eight years after that cold, rainy Halloween, I thought again of Michelle Kelly. She introduced me to those "two pains."

She's president of the bank now, here in Morgan Grove, and I'm but one of her many customers. I'll be stopping by the bank tomorrow, and if she's there, she'll smile a "Hello" and thank me for my business, as always. She might ask when the bank can expect this year's shipment of poinsettias from my nursery, or ask for advice about pruning her dogwoods, or if it's too late to plant tulip bulbs. But she won't ask if I ever loved her, if I ever felt the pain of wanting her as I walked past her house on a Halloween night thirty years ago, and if I ever felt the pain of letting her go the day I saw Dean Northbridge walking to school with her, hand in hand. She doesn't know, because a young, shy boy, and the man he became, keeps the pain of his wanting tucked safely away, hoping the girl who's captured his heart will return to him a single glance and recognize the truth of the moment: that their eyes, their very souls, were drawn together by love.

Tonight the moon hangs full and bright, obscuring all but the most radiant stars, those holding the wishes of lovers, while a crisp autumn breeze dances with fallen leaves.

It's the perfect night for a seduction.

My fourteen-year-old daughter Adele, whose mother was the last to inflict upon me these two pains, is standing at the front door, wicker basket in hand, doling out treats to this year's band of Trick-or-Treaters -- the little kids. She is a beautiful young lady, with her mother's auburn hair and my brown eyes. I want to be at the door with her, but it could spoil the night for some young romantic. So I sit at the dining room table, remembering a Halloween long past, glancing up when she opens the door, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of a boy with a pain in his heart.

And I wonder if she will notice him, if she will notice his shoes.

(Excerpt from the poem "On My Ex-wife's Wedding Day," by Mark A. Hurt, used with permission.)