He leaned toward Sheila, and she leaned toward him. Their eyes closed as their lips puckered. He could feel the warmth of her skin as they drew closer. Then, the touch. Expecting the willing taste of her lips, he met the smooth, if disappointing, contoured wall of her cheek. He pulled away.
As his once rising passions gave way to the sinking dread of embarrassment, he fought with his injured pride. He knew Sheila. He’d never known her to lead him on. The quiet voice of his reason shouted over the booming din of his anger.
She was staring at something, he realized. Her body was rigid and cold. He followed her gaze. Looking out through the window, he saw that the rain had stopped. It had been one of those dull, drizzling days, and there was a meagre sort of sunset color to the clouded horizon. Then his eyes saw it.
He understood. There in the distance was the old tree where they, as little more than children, had first met and smiled and blushed. It was there, also, he had taken the juvenile liberty of carving their initials. It should be there, he resolved as he felt in his pocket for the ring, and if the rain will stay away another few moments, it will be. Or would she turn away again? he wondered, letting the ring fall back into his pocket.
Tale Told 