A Dream
It was the night he left. We had just climbed down from our hiding spot, and I was on the verge of tears. I looked up at him, and he was as beautiful as ever, his grey eyes shining in what little light the moon provided.
He was staring at me. I blushed and looked down at my feet. Heels poked out from underneath the full skirt of my sundress. I was a woman this time, the woman who had fallen asleep at her grandparents' house in Memphis. I was not the scrawny little girl who had hidden this man. This beautiful, beautiful man.
"Well, I must say good-bye now." But he didn't move.
I didn't hand him the money, as I had done that first time, the real time. Instead, I stepped closer, my head still lowered.
"Must you?" I asked softly.
"Yes," he whispered. He reached for my hand, and slid his grandfather's gold ring on my finger. Not the finger he had slid it on that first time, but on the ring finger of my left hand. And instead of being big enough to slip off, it shrunk to fit me perfectly.
"The greater the value, the greater the pleasure in giving it. The ring is yours, P.B."
And? I wanted to ask. "The greater the value, the greater the pleasure in giving it." Your heart is worth much more than 24-karat gold!
I heard him breathe in deeply. "Am I still your teacher?" he asked. I nodded, though it was too dark for him to see. "Then I want you to learn this. Even if you forget everything else I want you to always remember that you are a person of value, and you have a friend who loved you enough to give you his most valued possession."
And? I wanted to ask again. And?
But instead I answered, as I did that first time, "I will, Anton. I'll remember."
I knew what was coming next. It was my favorite part. His hand lifted my chin. He bent down, and my eyes fluttered closed.
His lips were firm against my own. This kiss lasted longer than the first. And we didn't stand still, as we both had so many years ago. This time, I buried my hands in his hair, holding him close. The hand he had placed at my chin now cupped my face, and the other hand snaked around my waist, pulling me close.
We stayed like that for a moment until he pulled away. "No," I whispered, my hands reluctantly releasing him. He brushed his lips gently against mine, just once more.
And then he was gone. And I was left standing with the sandpile and the chain swing and all of the chinaberries, the wind blowing my hair about my face.
I woke up crying, his name still on my lips.
Anton.
A/N: Once again, Summer of My German Soldier belongs to Bette Greene.