sixwordstories | (no subject)

To whom?

*covers what he's written with his hand*

You don't know her.

*peeks under hand, frowns, crumples up the paper*

No, I probably don't; but traditionally this is where the young poet extols the virtues of the object of his affection. Her beauty, wisdom, grace, et cetera et cetera.

She is a naiad, sweating nectar. I catch glimpses of her reflection in the water so as not to be struck dead by beholding her beauty directly.

Happy?

Quite. I am a purist. Thank you.

At least you're writing? But, if you'd like to send one written by someone else, I could recommend a few?

I have thought of that, but she is very well-read. She had probably heard them all before and it would not impress her. So it's probably best to employ my own words.

But thank you.

Aww.

*pats his shoulder*

Just keep at it. The right words will come.

*sighs* Oh, I don't know. I think it's completely beyond me. I can read it but I can't write it.

I am really much better at drawing and painting, but you don't even hear of a love doodle, do you?

Anson chuckles.

"Well, no," he admits. "I didn't know you're an artist, though. Very cool. Can you do portraits?"

'I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm an artist, but yes, I can. Portraits are my favorite, although I enjoy doing plant and animals as well.'

He leans on his fist.

'Do you think she would like a drawing instead? It's not too childish, is it? I mean, do you think it would get across the same message?'

Anson grins. She? Crispin Fitzroy, you dark horse you.

"Childish?" he echoes. "No way, man. Chicks love that stuff. I'll tell you what," he continues, getting down to serious business. "You draw her portrait, make it all nice and everything, and give it to her, she'll think you're the greatest thing since sliced bread. I mean," he shrugs. "Anybody can write a poem or buy some flowers or a box of chocolates, but something like that? That's special. That'll win her heart for sure."

Chicks? Sliced bread? Anson and his Yank talk!

‘Oh, I’m not going to give it right to her! Not in person, at least. I want to get it to her anonymously somehow. She can’t know it was from me.’

Anson nods knowingly.

"Ah, the mysterious approach. Worshipping from afar. I like it." He grins and claps Crispin on the back. "You sly dog, you. Where did you learn moves like that? I'll tell you, that little gal's not gonna stand a chance."

He sits down on the edge of the table, swinging one leg and raiding the bowl of grapes at his side.

"So, tell me about her. What's she like?"

I don't blame you. Love is much too confusing.

A confusing emotion indeed. Doubly so when one is trying to express it in iambic pentameter.