‘The Proposal’ by Stephen Thompson

'You really want to get married?'

'Yes.'

'Do you have a ring?'

'A ring? What for?'

'Because, silly, that's what you do when you propose. You're meant to put a ring on my finger.' She held up the appropriate finger. 'This one.'

He became thoughtful. 'What does it mean, 'perpose'?'

Sighing heavily, she folded her arms and looked away from him.  Panicking, he delved into  his pocket and pulled out a marble. He fingered it, tossed it in the air a few times, held it up against the sunlight. It was his only marble and he was reluctant to part with it but he offered it to her all the same. She slapped his hand away.

'I don't want your stupid marble.'

'It's not stupid.'

'It is.'

'Isn't.'

Without another word she sprang nimbly to her feet and strode away, her pigtails swinging from side to side, one white bobby sock crumpled and slightly lower than the other. He watched her go, in between pulling up tufts of grass, then rose and sprinted after her. Many years later, when they were married, he would tease her about the day she dragged him off to the bushes and showed him her knickers. In reality they spent the rest of the afternoon stealing kisses while their parents picnicked  a few feet away pretending not to notice.