To all those with feeble records in the love department, with long intervals of growing pains, with personalities as subtle as gunfire in a temple, the following tale is hereby dedicated.

No matter how cool we might think we are, at some point, we will have our hearts handed to us, with a big bow on it and a note saying, "Thanks! You've been great."

The story you are about to read is true. The names have been changed so the writer can avoid litigation.

A Saturday afternoon in May 1972. All of 14 years old, he sat in the darkened Paramount Theatre, with three of his closest friends. And four other people.

It was a "group date," a bridge from adolescence, a safe way for young teens to lab-test social skills, gauge weaknesses.

His own weaknesses? Awkward and impulsive, he had a tendency to be hermit-like. Few friends, and he preferred it that way. Yet secretly, he yearned for a girlfriend.

"Secretly"? Desperation glowed above his head like neon. On one early attempt at dating, unsure of protocol, he heard the girl say she wanted to stop for a soda. So he walked her to a restaurant and waited until she got one. On her own tab. Not a savvy young man, is the thing.

Four boys and four girls huddled in the dark, in a row, each paired off. His partner was Julia, a cute, intriguing brunette. Same year of school, yet unacquainted.

On screen was a gothic horror drama "The Other," about a set of twin boys, one of whom was evil. There was a sudden, unexpected death at the heart of the plot. Atmospheric and startling, but not gruesome or gory. Perfect date movie.

All had started well, but he suspected Julia wasn't enjoying the movie. She fidgeted, crossing her legs away from him. Occasionally, she would shoot glances down the row to Ruth, the mutual friend who had brought them together.

Clearly, he realized, the girl was afraid. Perhaps the sudden, unexpected death has startled her.

How could he possibly comfort her? He was just a kid at her school.

Besides that, he also wanted to express his interest in seeing her again.

Somewhere, he had heard that a reassuring hand on the arm might be effective.

Well, her arms kept moving as she covered her eyes. So he reached out a hand to her left knee.

Odd, but whatever was going on in the movie went silent at that exact moment. Not a sound, the audience in suspense. One twin walked to a locked door. Music shuddered in terror, then stopped, too.

Though he didn't realize it (or perhaps he did), his hand was still on Julia's knee.

That is, until the stillness splintered under an adolescent scream:

"If you want to put your hand on a knee, put it on your own [VERY VERY BAD WORD] knee!"

The voice rumbled, echoed between the theater's soundly built walls. His immediate hope was that his friends had not heard Julia's outburst, but who was he kidding? People driving by on Meridian Street could have heard it.

His errant hand had shot back to his lap, cowering, fearful.

In the dark, with the glances of friends and strangers burning his skin, he yearned for only one thing: sudden, unexpected death.