'...the marigold light setting the hazel forest of his eyes on fire. It was selfish of him really, to take something she loved so dearly as the woods and complicate it with... with them.'
The Avonlea Class of 1898- heading towards futures far away f...
//"And now all your love is wasted; and then who the hell was I?"\\
-don't play the song yet-
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Anne turned over on her bed, brow furrowed in a clear and dangerous sign of her deep thought. Roy Gardener. His name sent tremors down her spine, like a nervous excitement, so foreign. Royal Neville Gardener was his full name, but of course only Teachers addressed him as such. He was Roy Gardener to everyone else.
And to me? She thought, relishing in it's uncertainty.
To me, well.. he was Roy. Just Roy.
He was Roy, the boy I met in the wonderful story-book room, at the perfectly romantic hour, to escape from a party he orchestrated for me. Sweet, a little nervous- he wore those rectangular glasses and spoke the most enchanting phrases in his dark, smooth voice.
That was Roy, and he liked her. Yet, it was also not.
Surrounded by classmates, he was proud. His chest puffed out and his secretive gaze transformed into something declaratively plane- rushing over her features and grinning wolfishly. And of course, there was the Goodbyes. Or rather, the lack of. In those moments, Anne decided he was Royal Gardener. Famous in Queen's halls for all the right things, good natured to his peers but clearly his charm diverted to something that alluded a different reputation.
Flirt.
She thought of the roots of it, but realised she couldn't word it. So, followed her sudden urge to discover it's definition. Bending over her less that sound bed frame- her fingers grazed the floor, as the structure sunk low- she fished into a small box that rested in the shadow of her drawers. Pulling it up into the stifled sun flaring through the curtains, she fiddled with it's faulty latch in till it sprung open. Carefully, brushing off the stray dust with just the tip of her thumb, she held the scarlet-leather in the palm of her hand. She pulled it close to her face, cheek still nestled into her pillow. She bit her lip seeing a crease along the cover, and traced the mark carefully. She wanted to preserve each part, each page, each word.
Each memory.
Moving on from that thought with a hasty exhale, she flicked through the almost transparent pages, lips silently shaped around each letter as she moved through it.
C, D, E... F.
She found it, and her eyes narrowed as she absorbed the definition with determination.
Flirt
verb - noun
- associated with such onomatopoeic words as flit and flick, emphasizing a lack of seriousness. It has been attributed to the old French conter fleurette, which means "to (try to) " seduce.
