First Romance
Life had a structure, a way of living that could was ascribed to with concrete fact. Even in the face of the impossible, that was how Mary lived. There were rules to a game. Sentiment was irrelevant. Besides, she found the notion absurd.
Yet, practical perfection wasn't quite so.
She learnt that lesson the hard way, strolling through London on a sunny day. Pausing, she was momentarily distracted by etchings of chalk across the pavement. Technicolour for all to see.
Dropping a coin into the artist's cap, Mary felt it would be impolite to leave without complimenting the man first. He had his back to her, not once having paused in his work.
She stepped beside him. "Excuse me."
Her profile shadowed across the slab of concrete.
"Hold on!" he exclaimed, shifting sideways on his knees.
He began to etch her portrait, an expert precision to his lines. With a flourish, he pocketed the chalk and sprung to his feet. His thin coat was covered in chalk stains and soot.
"Wha' an extraordinary profile you have, Mi…"
The man came to an abrupt halt, noticing her for the first time. His cheeks began to redden. Mary felt herself reciprocating the gesture. Not that it was hardly noticeable. Staring into a sky-blue reflection, some sentiment struck her that she hadn't felt before.
That uncertainty disappeared in the blink of an eye, her hand raising to pat her hair.
"Yes, I like to think so," she simpered. "Your work is wonderful, I must say. Is this what you do for a living?"
His face hadn't lessened in its redness, his hands wringing together. "Oh, yes… Ma'am. It is." Then his lips jerked upward in a grin, a sparkle returning to his eye. "But I'm a jack-of-all-trades by definition. Bert's my name."
"Well, you certainly have a talent, Bert." She liked the way his name sounded. "I'm Mary. Mary Poppins."
Their conversation was shortly interrupted by the Park Keeper, who had taken a moment to say hello. Mary stepped back, knowing she had more pressing matters to attend to.
"Don't be afraid t' come back now, you hear?" Bert called after her.
Mary was never afraid of anything. But she did take a second to recollect herself, some strange feeling pounding against her chest. It was unnecessary. Sentimental.
As much as she knew there was no reason for it, Mary returned the next day. Bert had painted red carnations; she took them home and placed them in a vase on her windowsill.
Years later, Bert was surprised to find they still had not wilted. Nor had the other painted flowers she had kept over the years, collected into one exquisite bouquet. Mary could forgive sentiment. If it allowed her to keep a piece of each stolen moment with him.