Well, this is it, my dears. The last chapter of this sweet little story. I would like to thank all of you, who stuck with me so far, and hope to see you all in some of my other stories, for I won't stop writing anytime soon, that's for sure.
Take care, have fun, be nice to people, and try to be a little truer to yourselves-it's harder, than many might think…
C ya, Ja ne, and auf Wiedersehen!^^
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5. Pencils and purple ink
The first hint of fall lay in the air, as the green leaves, which were slowly turning yellow, flittered in the afternoon sun.
A flaxen-haired boy wearing a small, blue cap walked next to a girl sporting long, golden pigtails and a big, pink bow.
Finally, they arrived at a secluded park bench, where they both took place.
Some minutes passed, without either one of them speaking, until the boy broke to silence.
"So?"
"So what?" growled the girl back. A sigh escaped the boy's throath.
"So, are you going to tell me why you broke into my house, or do I have to guess?"
"Try your best, football-he-"
She swallowed the insult, when she saw, what Arnold pulled out of his shirt.
Outwardly, she remained cool, uninterested, but inside, her soul was screaming in despair, as her heart pounded in senseless fear. Even if she would have wanted, she could not have moved a muscle, for she was frozen in shock.
Instead, she only stared at him, hoping the earth would open up and swallow her whole.
What else could she do, when he held her pink poetry book?
"You know, when I first found this, I was rather..freaked, to tell you the truth. Here was somebody, loving me so much, that they dedicated a whole book filled with poetry to me. They seemed to know everything about me, and I didn't even knew their name. That was somewhat scary, and it made me quiet nervous."
"Uh-huh. And how did you get past the paranoia?" Even in her own ears, her voice sounded weak and defensive.
"Well, my grandfather pointed out, that it must be great, to know, that somebody out there loves you so much, they would write poems about you. That made me proud-well, actually, it gave my ego a real boost."
A slight, guitly snicker, and Helga's already weakened defenses crumbled even more.
"However, it didn't stop me from finding out who the writer was, if at all, I tried harder than before, to find my secret admirer. Needless to say, I never found her."
He looked up.
"Until now."
A hand snaked over the battered wood of the bench, to come to rest upon hers.
She looked down, confused, but before she could pull her hand away, she heard him ask:
"Is there anything, you'd like to tell me, Helga?"
Blue-green eyes sparkled in amusement, as his grandfather told the ten-years old boy, how he had found his most-feared female rival to be the love of his life.
Shaking his blonde, unruly hair, the boy smirked.
"Heh, so history does repeat itself, huh?"
"And I wouldn't have it any other way!" exclaimed his grandmother, as she entered with a huge bowl of vanilla-watermelon-bubble-gum ice cream in one hand, and four plates in the other one.
Her husband gave her a loving glance, as she set dessert and utensils on the table, even as a girl of about the same age as the boy came rushing in, balancing several napkins and glasses on a tray. With a small gasp, she managed to place her fragile load on the table, then took a step back, struck a pose, and yelled:
"Ta-dahh, and everybody gices standing ovations to Hel, princess of jugglers!"
"Rather princess of yokels, if you ask me", muttered the boy under his breath, only to face a small, but firm fist, and two piercing, blue eyes, adorned by a furrowed unibrow.
"Take that back, or I'll make you choke on your words, doofus!"
"Make me!" cried the boy, as he shot from his chair and out the kitchen, the girl hot on his tracks.
Smiling, the couple watched them disappear, then the old man looked in silent admiration at his wife, and whispered:
"I love you, Helga."
"So do I, Arnold, so do I."
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And yes, if anybody might ask: they boy and the girl arguing at the end, are Helga and Arnold's grand-children…
