There are three things in life worth stealing - glances, kisses and chocolate.

I am a thief of glances.  I’ll admit it.  I love to make eye contact with people when I am out and about.  It doesn’t matter if I am in the car, at the store, or at work.  If someone is near me and we are facing each other, I look at their face, seeking their eyes.  Should our glances meet, I look away quietly, with what can only be described as a smug sense of satisfaction at having made yet another personal connection.

Not everyone likes my glances; I have made a few people uncomfortable when they notice me looking, as though I have invaded their personal space, as if they saw something there they shouldn’t have seen, or have not allowed themselves to see.  It’s not sexual in nature, those stolen glances.  To me there is something about making eye contact that reminds me that I am not alone in the world – that we are all interconnected, equals, seeking something from each other.

After my very first day of Kindergarten 38 years ago, three little girls followed me as I walked home.  They surreptitiously walked a bit behind me, so I wasn’t really aware they were shadowing me until after I got home.  As a happy-go-lucky 4 1/2 year old, I wouldn’t have noticed them even if they had stomped behind me the whole way.  Their arrival was announced with the repeated ringing of the doorbell, which my father then answered in curiosity.

“Steven kissed me.” Said one of the girls.  ”Me too,” said another.  The accusations continued until all three girls had made my father aware that I had stolen a kiss from each of them that very day.  Apparently, it was wrong to kiss all of the girls I liked.  It’s not like this had been mentioned to me previously; after all, when attending family functions I was encouraged to give all of my aunties a kiss…  I suppose I was just really happy to suddenly be surrounded by girls, and my fervor got away from me…  Either way, my unabashedly wanton ways were out in the open now, after only my first day of school.

After some quiet laughter and a solemn promise to set me straight, my father shut the door and came to my room, where I hid, having heard the angry remonstrations from the girls on the front porch.  ”Don’t kiss any more girls at school,” my father told me, feigning anger in the hopes that I would realize the error of my way.  But a stolen glance at my father as he began to walk away revealed an odd sense of pride behind those steady eyes.

When I was fourteen, my parents divorced, and I moved from a large, open farmhouse we had been renting in Italy to a small apartment above a convenience store.  Along with the requisite foods, cleaning supplies, liquors and personal hygiene items, the owner of the store had a variety of imported toys and candies.  Every penny of my weekly allowance was spent at the store on either Legos or something sweet.

Every day, twice a day as was customary in Italy, the store owner closed shop to enjoy a meal with his family.  One day while playing outside at lunchtime during Summer vacation, a great temptation was revealed to me.  I noticed that the side door to the shop was left open, likely to keep the store from getting too hot inside, while the owner was away at lunch.

I looked around to ensure nobody was watching on that lazy afternoon, then crept over the low balcony, into the store, realizing with wonderment that I was alone, unwatched, with a great deal of time on my side.   My heart raced, pounding in my chest, my eyes darting to and fro for any sign of movement in the low light of drawn shades.  My face was flush, my hands wet with cold sweat, my stomach full of butterflies, as my glance moved toward the Legos and candy….

Over the next few weeks, my Lego collection slowly grew to a collection any young man would envy.  I was careful to hide my new largess from my mother, who would surely have skinned me alive for having carted away box after box without payment.  I built prolific creations, then quickly took them apart again, so as to not arouse attention.  But it was the chocolate eggs that kept bringing me back…

Each Swiss egg was about 4 inches wide, with three layers of chocolate – one white layer sandwiched between two layers of creamy milk chocolate.   Although the chocolate was perfection, what tugged my tortured my soul over and over through that open door (despite alarm bells in my mind to stop,) was what was inside each and every egg, behind that smooth, chocolaty skin.

Miniature books.  Tiny card decks. Forty piece miniature model planes, cars or ships.  Coins.  Metal soldiers.  To this day, I want to find the person who determined what went into these eggs and personally thank them for their ingenuity, for their obvious open pathway into the mind of a young boy still recovering from his life having been turned upside down.  I gleefully built each model, played with each toy soldier, squirreled away (and to this day still have) the miniature cards.  The chocolate, to me, was the sweetest I had ever tasted, rich with the flavors of plunder.

I suppose my need to steal glances and those chocolate eggs are linked, huh?  I mean, when we as adults are out and about in public, we are not so happy-go-lucky as we were in grade school.  We are quiet, unassuming, our expressions largely held in check.  When I make eye contact with strangers, I wonder if I am trying to see that which is hidden under the surface, what surprises lurk within, under the smooth skin.  Who are forty-piece models, each part intricate and fragile, held together beautifully on display?  Who are the many-chaptered books with fine print, difficult to understand but worth the read?  Who are the cold metal coins, aging gracefully but easily pocketed away? Who are the fun decks of cards, shuffling through life one game after another?  And who are the metal soldiers, whose eyes decry a hard life led, moving forward in that daily battle?

My father, were he still alive today, would likely tell me I should keep my eyes to myself, that living my own life is enough, to not have to try and figure out the lives of others as well.  But I’d also like to think that even as he told me this, he would smile a bit, proud in the knowledge that he raised a fine thief of glances, kisses and chocolates.

Written in commemoration of National Chocolate Day.