I do.

Tea, books and roses

I am so impatient. Surprisingly i woke up first. I go down to the kitchen. One od my most favorite places. I search for an old book. It was my grandmother's. And my Nana was the best cook ever. I wish I could belike her. Not only in the kitchen but also in my life. 

Nana Baker was the kindest person I have ever met, so far. She belonged into the middle class so she was quite well educated. And Lord, how she loved reading! Mostly adventurous books. She was very young when she fell in love with my grandfather. And their life together was one big adventure, too. The both of them loved travelling. And even though their journeys never led out of England, they had many beautiful memories. 

I sit at the kitchen table with a cup of my favite tea. Maybe that is what I need. To meet someone, who completes me. Who shares my lust for wandering around the country. But could young Mr Wattson, my soon-to-be-husband, be that one? I close my eyes. I felt something strange back in the garden the other day. A feeling I have never felt before. Esprit de corps. Somehow I wish he could be my perfect match. But what if he is not? Strange. Few weeks ago I did not care about being marriend nor about love. And I did not know that particular handsome young man. 

Not only is he handsome, I think. I have already had the chane of getting to know he cares about other people, is very polite and loves his family more than anything. I still think of the daywhen the whole Wattson family came over. Mr Wattson, the father, was not exactly friendly vut at least he seemed to like me and our family. Mrs Wattson, on the other hand, was as strict and as cold as I remembered her from her first short visit. And Mr Hermann Wattson. My betrothed. He entered the room and my knees weakened. His presence was a real pleassure. 

But mirracles do not happen. And I do not want to be wrong. What could be more harmful than love? Or more... Arranged marriage. When two people, who have never met before, have to share their whole lives with each other. All weaknesses, fears, worries, memorries,... Everything. 

What is worse... Being the one, who hurts someone so much they cannot recover, or being the one, who ends up hurt? 

I open the book and I quickly return to the page, where I recently stopped reding. It may occure strange to have Shakespeare's sonnetsin the kitchen. But I spend a lot of time here. And a bit part of it only with waiting. And I love reading those poems of love. As I read the sonnet 130 I hear the doorbell ring. A brisk look at the clock tells me it is only 9 in the morning. What an impolite intruder, to come at this hour! 

I open the front door and a smiling young man hands me a bouquet of red roses. I am speachless. "I have seen these on the market this morning and they reminded me of you." He speaks up. "Sure, they are not as beautiful as those in your garden but still... They are very beautiful." Mr Hermann smiles at me again and, as if it was magic, I am able to speak. "Thank you very much, Mr Wattson." I answer and I smell those flowers. "It is very kind of you to bring me these." I flash a look into the house. "I am so sorry but I cannot let you in, since no one else is awake." He nods and he kisses my hand gently. "I shall come later today then." He leaves but he manages to look at me again from the other side of the road.

 Later today. Was it a promiss or a threat?