He could still remember their Oxford days, when she was all smiles and eyelashes and blushes, when she was his girl and he was her guy and the rose-colored tint of their lives hadn’t yet begun to fade. He could still remember holding her hand under the desk in the library that night, nineteen if they were a day, their heads together and their whispers warm as they cast shadows over books about western politics and anatomy. He could still remember the first time he kissed her, how soft her lips were, how brightly her smile shone, the promising murmur of her tender “good night”. He knew then, in some part of his soul, that he would never love another girl as much as he loved Helen Beckett.
Story Notes:This story contains references to sexual situations between adults and minors, and may be offensive to some readers. Material of this nature is purely fictional and condemned by the author outside of the realm of fantasy. Written for the Flash Rider LiveJournal community in 2010.