“They’re amazing,” she breathed, her voice just barely reaching his ears much like the way the wind just brushed the tips of the reeds on the bank they used to always walk along.
He did not want to answer for fear of shattering this moment of surreal peace and quiet that only existed in stories written by adolescent teens that were ravenous for loves such as this.
So they sat in silence, watching the sun descend among the grasses. The wind, still warm, caressed their cheeks and swirled around them as if in a drunken twirling.
“You’re beautiful,” he finally said, breaking the moment.
“I’m not beautiful,” she corrected after a few moments of thought and reflection. “I’m lovely. We’re lovely.”