A Bookmark

Anne sighed, breathing in the beauty of the summer that surrounded her, and pressing her palm even more strongly into Gilbert's arm, „You really have to read one of his poems, Gil. I have the feeling they changed me within."

"Changed you?" indignation resonated in his voice as he ripped his eyes away from the path to turn towards her.

"Oh," Anne chuckled, oblivious to his annoyance, "not that it changed me. Just, just… oh you have to read it. They just reach your very heart."

"Your heart." Gilbert clenched his teeth, he did not like the sparkle in her eyes at all. "How long will he stay again?"

"Just the rest of this week. It's a shame that he has to continue his journey then. It's such a pleasure to talk to him! I'm convinced Lucius is a kindred spirit. I wished Rachel would have invited him sooner! Isn't Lucius a melodic and poetic name? Lu-cius." She let the letters drop from her tongue as if they were sweet honey. Far too sweet honey.

What did his father use to tell him? "Remember son, in each jar of honey there can also be found the sting of a bee." He never understood it as a boy and was sure his father only wanted to keep him from eating too much of it anyway, but suddenly he had to think back at it.

Gilbert wondered if she even understood what she was doing to him. If it really was pure naïveté and kindness which let her speak this way.

"Does a fiancée wait for him somewhere?" He didn't even try to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

Either she was blind to it or decided not to acknowledge, "No, strangely not."

"Strangely?" His voice grew louder than he had intended to and Anne met his blazing eyes with her wondering ones.

"Why Gil, you…" she stopped walking, "You're not jealous are you?"

"Just because you keep on talking about a twenty-four year old fellow since two days?" He let out an ironic chuckle. "Who is the epitome of the ideal you carry within you all your life? No, of course not."

"But Gil…" hesitantly she placed her hand on his upper arm, only realizing then what damage she had caused. She was so used to telling Gilbert everything and him being so self-confident and blithe that it didn't occur to her once that even he could feel jealousy and fear of losing her.

"I would have never, I mean, you know I would have never spoken of him with you if I- Gil, he's nothing like my ideal at all!"

"He's melancholic, he's a poet-"

"And", Anne interrupted him sternly, "He is not you. Have you still not realized that you are my ideal?" Her voice softened, "That nothing comes above you? I know, I know it took me long to see things the way they are, but… But just imagine a blind person who tried to envision the colour blue. And in her head it was green. And then she could finally see and everybody tried to tell her that this was not blue, but she wouldn't believe it."

"Am I… the colour blue?" Gilbert furrowed his brow, a hint of an amused smile breaking his stern expression.

Anne nodded and then dropped her gaze as she felt the heat reaching her cheeks. "You, you are blue. Sky and ocean, calm and stormy, endless and everywh-"

Gilbert brought his hands to her face and leaned down in one swift motion, capturing her lips with his. Anne's green eyes widened and she stumbled back until her body met the big trunk of a chestnut tree as his mouth touched her in a way that melted her to her very core. He hardly ever allowed himself to let his feelings for her show like this. He knew that it would make the waiting for their marriage only harder. Anne closed her eyes and leaned into him, yearning to feel even more of this. But Gil broke the kiss just as abruptly as he began and left her breath- and speechless.

"Have you ever shared your poems with him?"

Anne blinked flustered, trying to follow his thoughts again, "N-no."

"And he? Has he said anything like this to you?" His darker eyes danced between hers.

She found it hard to talk to him when she would have wanted much rather to kiss him again. "One. O-only one", she stammered, afraid it could be the wrong answer.

Gilbert leaned down again and she expected him to release her finally from the agony of her lips not touching his, but instead his warm mouth sought out her neck.

Anne gasped, bringing her palms to his chest, "W-what, what are you doing?"

"Writing a poem."

The following days Anne found herself constrained to wear her high-necked blouse in the midst of August, assuring everyone that she had indeed no cold; She simply smeared the ink she was writing on her latest novel with (unmindful as she usually was), and now the blue colour just didn't seem to wash off her skin. Clumsy her.

AN: Guess what little snippet was hiding itself in my folder?

Have a lovely day, people of Avonlea 🌼