ABSTRACT
I thought I was enchanted, . . . a forty-year-old blond craftswoman remembers. Not enchanted with someone, but as a person. She was seven when she had her first crush on a woman. . . . [She had fantasies that her] attraction toward a certain girl would have been greeted with smiles, or cautions of “suitability.” The recipient of her young love would have rushed home to tell her parents that she and the enchanted girl had exchanged amethyst pinky rings.
