by OOSH
WARNING: The following story should not be read by children under the age of three, as it may spur them into forming unorthodox liaisons.
Even in my twenties, my handwriting had really fallen to pieces. But now, it is scarcely decipherable.� People are always moaning to me about it. So I decided to take myself in hand, and try to make love to the paper with my pen.
Of course, paper nowadays is not what our grandfathers knew. Most papers are designed for ball-point pens. But for my carefully-cut quill, only the finest vellum would do.
I looked around, and found some really good stuff, beautifully smooth.� It was perfect.� This is what I wrote so carefully:
The boys frightened me: they were too loud and rough.
Michael was different:� quieter, more thoughtful; interesting, and easy to talk to. I decided I liked him; I know he liked me, too.
So I asked him: "Will you marry me?"
He was so different from the girls. He frowned, blushed slightly and looked away, rather embarrassed. He seemed like someone much older.
All the girls I'd asked had laughed, and said of course they would. Some had even kissed me.
But not Michael. He was the only one I ever wanted, and it was a brutal put-down.
"But you're only a little girl! We can't get married!"
I felt so embarrassed, so utterly stupid. Of course I was. Of course we couldn't.
We never referred to it again, not after we left kindergarten; and it was forty years before he found himself a wife - in Argentina of all places.
By that time, of course, the quill was getting into quite sensitive regions: the noises and the aroma were distracting enough; but the bouncing and twitching of the vellum under my fingertips were making me laugh crazily, utterly frustrating my attempts to cross my Ts with a nice, clear, firm stroke.
So I dipped my tongue into the inkwell and wrote her another story, one which I think in fact she found more exciting, even though I had told it to her often enough before.
Oh well. Practice makes perfect.