Perhaps we all have the same memory of the “Mr. Anonymous”. During one day, we are happy when we bump into him. We wait and see by far. We cannot touch his eyes straightly. We cannot control our soaring mind. We don’t know what we waiting for. We just expect tomorrow arrival, but there is a group of female students who are active on this immaterial thing. 
     Eventually, girls gather to talk about boys between class and class. Discussion topic must be faceheightcloth. In order to distinguish but not to be discovered, every one takes a nickname. In female association, one of the thinner, better-looking girls, perhaps dogged by two taller, shriller acolytes would make the loud voice to echo. Eventually, one of the girls would open the door to start a conversation. We would instantly understand the difference between that girl and us, so that for the rest of school years, the festival celebrates would belong to her show time. 
     None of us would consciously know it then, but what we are seeing, that great heavy door in the center of the conversation as dreadful as a bomb, was the great partition between the sexes. It was wonderful to think of the time when it would no longer be there, when the school playground would be a great meeting place in which we would mix all kinds of people. And maybe that door topples down in my tentative time, but I can’t say when it happened.

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