She had chosen the granny-print corduroy, princess style mini, as inspired by Twiggy.
She bought it because it carried the lovely fragrance of a beautiful perfume;
an exquisite aroma that clinged to the material. Wine red the dress was,
with cream lace and small cream roses, linked by green stems; long sleeved,
for it was winter. She wore white tights and black thick-sole shoes.
She was sixteen.
She arrived at the fete and immediately he was next to her.
Ah, you smell great. Although eager, he was shy.
She was interested in his eyes, in the intensity and why they shimmered with such brilliance.
Yes, she said, looking into his eyes, but the fragrance is not from me -- I bought it with the dress.
He was tonque-tied by her honesty. Should she not be more ... demure ... more of
an enigma? He asked her this with a stutter. And added, with a blush: I know little of girls. But ... are you not supposed to say: "Thank you"?
She looked at him. Giggled. You are simply so much like me! Too serious and too honest.
Now, listen. She stepped right into his face and watched his eyelids wink in surprise. I am not an ordinary girl. If I run, I do not pretend that you catch me. Either you do, or your don't. And: I do not allow boys to kiss me.
When she said kiss, he stepped back. Dropped the box of chocolates that he hid behind his back, turned and disappear in the crowd.
Early the next morning, before the bell rang, she placed the chocolates on his school desk, with a little note: Thank you.
He blushed every time he saw her. And she always felt an inexplicable pang of pain.
* Not his real name
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
...well at least she finally said thank you 
