She looked up into his eyes for the first time and knew she was home. He smiled, and it was so easy to smile back but it was clear that they were opposites. They argued as the others enjoyed their romances, and she didn't even mind losing for once, because he was kind and maybe she wanted him to be happy around her. As he walked her home his rough-smooth hands enveloped hers, shielding from the rain. This was the start of the three weeks.
The three weeks would fly by, in whirlwind style. They would meet three more times and she would discover that, like his hands, his lips were rough-smooth too. His spelling, his atrocious spelling, became something she could overlook because of the kindness, the warmth, the worry in his words. When they walked upon the hillside among the trip-up trees, she would fall; her dancer's balance often failed her that day. But he, the ever-present duet partner, would catch her without fail. As the streetlamps awakened he would kiss her again in the cold winter air. "I think I will miss you, these three months," She would say.
He would tell her not to, with a sad smile.
She was never very good at following instructions.