Strangers In The Dumpster: A Short Story

She folded her hands in her lap and cleared her throat awkwardly. When she spoke, her voice was formal, words stilted. “Thank you, Gilbert. For listening to my tales of woe with such patience and understanding, and, um…” Anne couldn’t bring herself to put into words all that had occurred between them within the last hour, so she simply skipped over it and continued. “…and escorting me home—well, partially home, to be particular about it, but I guess that doesn’t exactly matter does it—”
Her anxious rambling was cut short when Gilbert unexpectedly reached forward and absentmindedly brushed a stray tear from Anne’s cheek with his thumb. His touch was light, tender, and it lingered for a few heartbeats longer than—by Avonlea’s standards of decorum—was proper. Anne shivered, all the way from her nose to her toes, and felt
Something unspoken passed between them, and somehow Gilbert could tell that she knew. He shoved his hands into his pockets self-consciously, and Anne could’ve sworn that his face flushed red. He bowed his head as he passed by, avoiding her gaze.
But he couldn’t avoid her forever. At lunch she found him sitting alone by the stream, thumbing through a copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.
“Now I make a leaf of Voices—for I have found nothing mightier than they are,” Anne recited, kneeling beside Gilbert. “And I have found that no word spoken, but is beautiful, in its place,” She glanced at Gilbert, her heart pounding. He was watching her reticently, and she swallowed hard. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he echoed. “You like Whitman?”
“Yes. I have not read much of his work, but I adore Voices. He has such a romantic way with words, doesn’t he?”
Gilbert tapped his thumb against the cover thoughtfully. “My father’s favorite was Song of the Open Road. He used to read it to me when I was little. And then…And while he was sick, I read it to