Friday 5: November 6, 2009

Random Words:

1. bravura
2. thorough
3. ritzy
4. tittle
5. heirloom

It was with great care and confidence that Miss Anne-Marie Fitzgerald presented herself as the most thoroughbred of her kind: Elegant in poise, regal in stature, charming in nature, and of course, most thoughtful in political conversation. As it were, her fingers were most solid under her gloves, her ankles most stable beneath petticoats and ankle-boots, yes -- she drew the eye with her modest realism in the midst of all the ritzy, cheap glamour that surrounded her on a daily basis.

Particularly, she drew the eye of one Mr. Jonathon Wordsworth, who thought less of her as a heirloom and more of a woman -- a human being -- a real mind! -- and one day over a spread of scones and other delights, he said, his breath whispering gently across a tittle of sugar before he dropped it in her tea, "Miss Anne-Marie, would you come away with me and be my wife?"

This was the beginning of it all. Their marriage was the greatest financial investment either sets of parents had made in a long while since the mortage on their fine estates. Thus, Anne-Marie and Jonathon were married in the glade between their two houses and it was with honest bravura that she, his new wife, flung her bouquet of lillies and roses to the sky as if it were to be taken away by the doves that erupted from her laughter.

They bred horses together -- Arabs with sleek coats and gentle dispositions. In the evening they rode together and recalled that there had never been a moment in their lives together where there had been an uncomfortable pause, a moment of conflict, a cause for concern. He became a lawyer, fighting for good, and she a teacher, doing the same. They had children who grew up strong and smart-witted, accepted away to Universities that were their parents' greatest investment since the purchase of their beautiful estate.

They died within days of one another, peacefully in their sleep, she with soft grey hair and a smile on her lips, and he with a rose and a lilly pressed delicately between his old man's hand and his breast.

No one was sad at their funeral, for Anne-Marie and Jonathan had had a happy life without tragedy. Their children paid their respect but spoke amongst themselves that their parents had led a good, full life. There was no gossip, for they held only friends of the highest integrity and pedigree. No one murmured a secret confession of love or hate. Not a single tear was shed, not one person's heart moved, and not a memory of this story stayed in the mind of anyone who read it, passing like a shadow on a fall day.