Sandie Friedman
SAT Word

Limerence. It sounded like a type of magic, and her tutor Greta explained that it was a specialized psychological term for being in love—bewitched or possessed. In the moment when Greta pronounced the term, she felt a warm thrill rise in her chest. Was Greta teaching her this term because she knew? Did Greta know she felt a dizzy excitement when they laughed together over words: viscous, boorish, cacophonous, flummox, squander? She was already so giddy, sitting at Greta’s dining room table, that these absurd sounds sent her into fits of laughter. What? Greta would say, turning to her and widening her eyes in mock incomprehension, then dissolving into laughter herself. At other moments, when Greta guided her through a math problem, the mood was serious; it felt holy. Walking home on the grassy path, as always, she traced the contours of Greta’s face in her mind: green eyes, hair the color of honey falling over creamy cheeks. Limerence—she spoke it assertively into the air, enunciating as she would at a spelling bee. The new word opened a portal to her future: on Saturday, she would take the SAT with a sense of mastery, smiling to herself as she recognized words; she would study psychology; she would listen in a hushed office while people confided in her about their secret, obsessive loves.