Sixteen, Seventeen

“Grand romantic gestures are dead, Wendy.”

Wendy furrowed her brow and frowned, as she tended to do when thinking about what she referred to as big things.

She finally mustered, “Why?”

“Because pretty sixteen year old girls killed the spirit of boys dumb enough to try them,” he responded.

This made Wendy sad, and as she sat on her skateboard, rolling back and forth contemplatively, a bead of sweat fell from her furrowing brow, evaporating the moment it made contact with the hot asphalt.

“I never killed any boy’s spirit,” she said, wiping her face.

He smiled, “That’s because you weren’t pretty when you were sixteen.”

“Hey!” she said, hitting him in the arm disapprovingly.

“You didn’t get pretty until you were seventeen,” he responded.

Wendy began to sweat even more, but she didn’t immediately give him credit for this, as the ground was literally baking beneath her Vans.

He got up from out of the grass, grabbed his board, and made his way to where Wendy was in the middle of the hot cul-de-sac, “Race you around the neighborhood,” he said.

“Fine,” she said, “but I don’t think grand romantic gestures are dead.”

“We’ll see.”

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~ by ripgrimey on August 1, 2011.

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