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Three days had gone by like the fading echoes of a ghost town since their paths crossed. With each passing minute, Ethel and Ernest had woven the threads of their connection tighter. There Ethel sat, slumped in the comforting embrace of an oversized wicker chair, her fingers dancing nervously over her parasol, tracing hypnotic spirals into the grains of sand below. Meanwhile, Ernest sprawled at her feet, his knees locked in a self-embrace as his eyes attempted to dive into the deep pools of hers.

"What's got you so revved up trying to woo me?" Ethel quizzed, a playful smirk gracing her lips—a smirk that danced on the edge of mockery and allure. This was the seasoned smirk of an Eve who had seen three decades and knew well the sweet surrender that sometimes follows a boy's ardent gaze. That smile might have been drenched in cynicism—it was her shield against sentimental bombardment, after all.

Yet on rare occasions, just maybe, the beguiling plea trapped within a young man's stare or the unfettered call of instinct slices through that guarded veneer. She finds herself entranced; love blossoms and suddenly she is undone.

Ethel Brandenbourg was halfway there—listening intently, though thoughts of love hadn't yet dared to cross the threshold of her mind. She found this youthful poet, Ernest, with his voice trembling like an aspen when he spoke about love, intriguing; partly because of his fresh innocence. But even more intoxicating was his close bond with another man—one who had never really relinquished his grip on Ethel's heartstrings. So it was with a certain playful curiosity she’d posed her question.

Why did he pursue her affection? That answer eluded him. Maybe it sprang from that deep-seated yearning for affection—a yearning not unlike what poets and house cats alike often crave. But how could he articulate this to her? Hollow courtesies would surely fall flat in this dance they were now entangled in.

Moreover, he was keenly aware of love’s treacherous price. In Ernest's view, women often play with love as if it were a delicate gossamer thread that can be drawn out endlessly—an indulgent but costly pastime that robs men not just of coins from their pockets but steals away what's truly beyond price: time itself. And for him, time equated to song—it fueled his verses more than any currency could. Blessed by providence with lyrical prowess, he knew he could only heed his heart’s whisperings in those stolen moments between his rhythm-infused orations—for surely the heart keeps time not by clock ticks but through love’s sporadic ebb and flow.

As they sat there on nature's canvas, it was almost as if she could hear the pitter-patter of his inner turmoil against her own silent musings.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"Kid, listen," she started, with that dark glint in her eye, "why mess around with love? It's like messing with a god - a god that won't settle for anything less than everything. Tangle with a poet's heart? It's like dancing on the edge of a knife. I get it, it's got its charms, but it's a surefire way to disaster. Love or art will get wrecked. No one can serve two masters without one starving for attention. A true poet, they just can't pour themselves into loving someone else."

"Oh come on! You're laying it on thick," he countered. "Sure, there's a sliver of truth in your words, but truth is a creature with many faces. Trust me, I've loved every woman I've wrote my love verses to. And you can't tell me those poems weren't real."

"I wouldn't dream of it! But honey, you've been off by one little word. You've been writing at them, not for them."

His gaze fixed on her, wide-eyed and full of innocent disbelief.

"Damn! You’ve got a wicked sharp mind!" he burst out.

The talk drifted into silence for a spell before he ventured cautiously, "So is this your take on all artists or just us, the weavers of words?"

"Every last one," she declared firmly.

He searched her face for some clue.

"Yes," she admitted, voice tinged with fresh sorrow, "I paid dearly myself."

"You mean?"

"I was in love once."

"And your art?"

"That was the price I had to pay."

"Maybe you're right, picked the better path," Ernest muttered, though he didn't quite believe it himself.

"No," she shot back, "whatever I offered, it was all for nothing."

There was a serene certainty in her tone, but Ernest caught the undercurrent of deep sorrow.

"You still carry a torch for him?" he asked, plain-spoken as ever.

Ethel held her peace. A shadow of grief shrouded her visage like a cloak, or akin to a pall of fog settling over the surface of the sea. Her gaze drifted to the ocean, tracking the bleak traverse of the gulls on wing.

For an instant, Ernest felt an urge to pull her close and kiss her with all the gentleness in his soul.

But softness between a man and a woman can ignite like a spark in a keg of gunpowder. The slightest nudge, and sensual fireworks erupt, leveling towers of friendly affection like houses of cards. If he gave into this fleeting desire, the passions of early summer would light their veins ablaze, and from such internal infernos, no one walks unscathed.

"Face it," she pressed him, "you don't really love me."

His denials rang out.

"Aha!" she exclaimed with a gleeful challenge. "How many sonnets would you pen for me? Had you been hoarding gold instead of verses, I'd be asking for your dollar amount. But it's not fair to trade services with currency we don't cherish. To a man perishing in gold mines, bread is more precious than all his unearthed riches. For you? Your ballads are your gold standard. So how much am I worth? One stanza, two, three?"

"Even more."

Her eyes twinkled as she teased him about anticipation for interest paid back in love’s own currency.

His response was laughter—they both knew that when humor replaces ardor, whatever peril had loomed fades away with the chuckles into safer waters...for now.