2. Reminiscence

                                    

                                              
Don't get her wrong. More than half a decade of strategic avoidance and social discomfort, on Weston's part, had made Sally such an inept awkward ball that she didn't even know how to act around him.
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She stole a fleeting look at Weston as her mind travelled down the memory lane.
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That day of summer before second grade was when it all started.
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The doorbell rang out, strangled, as though its battery was somehow drained. 
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Little Sally shoot down the last two stairs; her crazy hair, bright red on top of curly, bounced like corn popping in a shovel with every steps. She wore a pristine white frock – the kind of white that seemingly glowed, searing into your retinas and made you temporarily blind – with baby-blue flowers made of soft, cottony fabric that her mom, after countless pleading, had gotten out of the closet but not without the stern-yet-loving – Don't spill any soup on your dress or the guests will have a hearty laugh about how you drool in your sleep.
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She had been mortified at the outrageous accusation. Sally didn't drool. There wasn't any proof that she did. Well, she hoped there wasn't since she wouldn't know if someone had snapped a picture of her while her conscious had been vacationing in the Land of Nod.
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"Sally, don't open the door." Mrs. Coug-Sabrina called out from the kitchen. Sabrina was embarrassed to be addressed as Mrs. Cougar. She would often ask her husband – Honey, were your ancestors fugitives from the mental asylum? Or maybe her ancestors' in-laws had occupations which involved the art of cougar-ism. Christ, what had made them think it would be a good idea!
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Hurling the door open, the girl gifted the couple an angelic smile that pierced hearts like cupid's arrow, making you adorn her, the instant you laid sight on her.
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"Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher!" She was radiating with energy as she stretched out her right hand in anticipation. She had seen her dad do it all the time.
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Standing tall and handsome, Mr. Fletcher let out a chuckle – benevolent gaze directed at the little girl. "Good evening, Sally," he bent a little, shook her hand which was small like that of a porcelain doll – adored and protected from the wicked eyes.
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Mrs. Fletcher who had been watching the girl with twinkling eyes pulled her into a hug and screamed silently – She's so adorable, Matt – to her husband. 
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Innocent giggles erupted from Sally's mouth like tinkling bells as her hands moved on its own and wrapped around the woman's slender neck. Her mom gave the best hugs – even her dad couldn't get enough of them – but Mrs. Fletcher was just as good.  In that embrace she felt cocooned better than any butterfly-to-be. Sally felt her soft skin and the gentle squeeze. She thought Mrs. Fletcher smelled lovely, like cinnamon with a lingering aroma of sweet honey and when she felt her feather-soft, auburn hair under her little arms she wanted to ask aloud – What shampoo do you use?
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Nevertheless before she could, Mrs. Fletcher gently pulled away and the affectionate warmth of the motherly embrace left her. Matt who was observing the interaction with silent-adoration, tucked his left hand inside his slack's pocket and fondly asked, "How are you, kiddo?"
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With a sweet smile, Sally opened her mouth but words got stuck at the tip of her tongue as the treacherous vocal cord seemed to stonify; her brain scrambled, as if someone had mildly electrocuted it. Instead of carefully arranged letters composed to structure a word, a waft of air escaped her mouth.
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Sally had just noticed the young boy peeking from behind Mr. Fletcher. The boy was perfection in coffee hues; his hair and eyes – those mesmerizing eyes that stole her breath away and made her heart pound incessantly against her ribcage – were the colour of dark roasted beans but his skin was all latte. His cheeks were milky white and bulging, like two fat water balloons just waiting to be popped.
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She noticed the bouquet of roses – her favourite – in his hands which was a burst of colour against his black button-up. Was it for her? 
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Mr. Fletcher nudged his seven year old son. "Go on. Give it to her." The words were quiet and encouraging, matched with an amusement in his brown eyes.
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Little Weston flicked a glance at Sally and then shuffled his little feet; clenching the bouquet in his little hands he appeared to be timid like a baby afraid of punishment. Patches of red crept up his neck and settled on his cheeks. Sally wanted to pinch them.
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With hands quaking, pulse racing and palms sweating, he gave the bouquet to Sally who couldn't hide the big smile tickling her lips. It was for her after all. How sweet of him! 
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Her grin widened until it nearly split her face apart as she leaned forward and gave Weston a kiss on the cheek, light and feathery as if afraid to pop his bulbous cheek.
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Hey peeps,
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Honestly, I thought I wouldn't be able to post today. Lack of motivation is a serious hassle and often I find myself suffering from it.
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Regardless, are you enjoying the story so far?
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Don't forget to vote and share this story to show some love and support.
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Much Love,
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Sphinx ❤️ 
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