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He knew that she thought less of him, when he was so much better than was she. Yet, he did not know how much of the look that she gave him came from the fact that he was so short or because she knew him long ago and was angry about something. He thought it funny if she were sorry for not going to the prom with him. He thought it funny if she wondered how better her life would have turned out if she had married him, the short guy, instead of the tall, unemployed drunkard. He thought it funny if, after all these years, she lusted after him, but he did not believe that. Still, how in the Hell was she to cast him such a look? In the way that she looked at him, she might well have said, "Hey, midget, open my box. Hey, little man, do what I ask, now." He felt sorry for her. He said a prayer for her.
Mr. McCarthy never gave him that look nor did Mr. Florentino. Little Ralphie never looked at him in that way nor did his beautiful Gabriella. "Gabriella, Gabriella, Gabriella," he read somewhere that if you said a word three times in a row and thought of that thing or that person, that your wish would come true. He said it again, "Gabriella, Gabriella, Gabriella," and wished he was kissing her. "Gabriella, Gabriella, Gabriella," he wished she was kissing him.
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