Phil whistled purposefully as he walked to the pub. He was meant to meet Mary. His big brother was his idol; Phil was amazed at all the lovely girls who buzzed around him. He was never shy to offer Phil advice.
'Treat them mean, keep them keen, Phil. The more you push them away, the more they want you.'
He hoped that was true, because he really liked Mary. She was the only girl who made his heart race. In fact, he had been imagining them together for life.
He wished he hadn't cancelled now. The thought of spending time with her took his breath away. His brother meant well, but he didn't think he'd mess Mary around anymore. She was too important. He sighed as he joined the usual group of losers at the bar.
Leaves, like fragile boats, were tossed this way and that as the sudden breeze made ripples on the river. It cooled her as she faced upwards to stretch her stiff neck. She had been motionless in reverie for a long time.
Mary un-crumpled the paper and reread it. He had cancelled, yet again. It was stupid, she was still breathless in anticipation every time they were due to meet, but so, so many times he let her down at the last minute. She had been analysing her feelings. Something had changed.
A vision jumped into her mind . . . a memory. She was eight and in the school playground. Brenda Harris pushed her down; Mary got up and faced her. Brenda Harris pushed her down again, she got up. This scenario repeated six times, but on the seventh, Mary didn't square up to the bully, she simply walked away, not caring enough to waste her precious time on Brenda Harris ever again.
It may have taken six months, but Mary knew that any affection she had for him had gone. She didn't care anymore and she felt the euphoria of release. She really wanted to make a ball of the pathetic excuse for a letter and throw it into the river, but she couldn't bring herself to pollute this perfect scene. So she scraped away some mud from the bank and buried it, very, very deep.
She jumped up, smiled broadly and almost skipped back along the track . . . just like an eight year old.