Strawberry Milkshake

A short story based on a place, a colour and a drink provide via twitter suggestion. I hope you enjoy, comments welcome.

He watched her, leaning oh so casually on the railing, the wind whipping her hair around her face, the sunlight making it shine and glow so that she looked like she had a fuzzy halo encircling her. The day was warm despite the breeze. They’d come to the coast to escape the oppressive humidity that had taken hold. She’s laughed and danced along the shoreline with the other girls. She flicked her hair, smiled her big, warm, gap-toothed smile, shrieking with false terror as the waves lapped over her trainers when they got too close to the teasing waves. He skulked along behind with the other boys, grunting the odd syllable, chain smoking, trying to look cool and utterly unimpressed by everything.
The reality was oh so different.
He kept his coat on, not because he was too cool to bow to the weather, but because he wanted to be able to hide his blushes on those rare moments when she looked his way. He shuffled and mumbled not because he wanted to fit in and be another faceless sheep in the cultural herd, but because he was so enthralled by her that he couldn’t think of a single word to utter that was worthy of her. He kept his eyes to the ground not to disrespect his grumbling elders as they stumbled by, but in order to hide the fact that she was the only thing that held his attention, that he was utterly lost in her. Her curves and wiggles, her boundless energy, her every tiny movement and undulation, the glowing lustre of her skin, the waves of her hair. He loved her more than he could imagine loving anything, he loved everything about her.
He loved her despite the fact he had never spoken a single word to her, and now he was stood frozen to the spot, a trickle of cold, sticky strawberry milkshake running slowly down the back of his hand. He felt stupid, what had he been thinking, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. He always had a strawberry milkshake at the seaside, it seemed perfect to share that little nostalgic joy with her. He hadn’t thought about it though, he’d just been eager to make a connection. He should have asked her what she always did on a trip to the sea side, what her tradition was. He had thought he could break the silence with his gesture, finally bridge the gap between them and ease the anxiety growing inside him like an ever expanding balloon, making him want to pop. He swallowed drily, shaking at the three steps forward he needed to talk. Before he could pluck up the courage though she turned, spotted him. His blood turned to ice. With a flick of her hair she covered the distance between them.
“That for me Danny?” she asked the question, but didn’t wait for the response, scooping one of the shakes out of his hands and continuing, her whirling, twirling path across a sunny afternoon, pausing just long enough to call back “thanks”, flashing him that glorious, beautiful gap-toothed smile.