Powdered Blush

Alistair had never been a womanizer, but he could hold his flirt, and when Anneliese stepped out of her door, ready to be picked up by the charming american, he whipped out a suttle bouquet of roses and handed them to her. Before she even held the bundle in her own hands her face flushed darker, the true blush showing through the pink she'd powdered on. "Good evening, Anne." He said. And everything from the sweet and caring tone he put on to the twinkle in his eyes made the german lass cast her gaze elsewhere, anywhere expect for his enchanting face. She could only imagine how very delightful he'd been at twenty-two, where his hair hadn't held the grey and his skin had been smoother and glowed with youth. 

"Good evening, Alistair. If you don't mind I'll just put these into a vase in my room?" She turned with a swish of her dress and hurried into the living room. As she picked out the right, tall vase to put the flowers in she caught herself smiling in the glass. She rolled her eyes at her childishness; this wasn't the first time she'd received flowers, why was she so happy about it? 

Maybe it wasn't so much the love itself that made her happy. Maybe it was the circumstance. She'd got an american boy to adore Germany, to read a book that she'd read many times, to listen to folk music - marching music, to laugh with the Führer, to agree to several activities and to start, slowly, but surely, to fall into the grasp of the nationalsocialist system. She'd done something good for her fatherland. 

She rushed outside again, took her dates hand and he lead her to the street. He had never recieved a car of his own; but it was only a few blocks up to where Goebbels was hosting the dinner, so it didn't really matter if they had a car or not. It was almost more romantic to walk than to drive. 

"Do you read poetry, Alistair?" She asked. It was a random question, and one she never asked again, she also never asked a similar question again. Alistair nodded.

"I have. In my twenties I was obsessed with it. Still haven't figured out why; but I'm guessing it was because of how love-sick I was."

"For who?" She asked in suprise.

"My ex-wife. Candice." 

"Candice?" She said and broke out laughing. "I've never heard such a terrible name!" And shortly; the strong, rowdy woman showed through the make-up. She clenched his arm harder and continued to laugh. "I'm guessing she was quite pretty; she had to be to make up for such a name."

"How do you laugh at Candice when half of Germany is called Gudrun?" He countered. This made her almost cry from laughter. 

"I agree, Gudrun is a very...serious, name, but...it's still..."

"Very German?" Alistair asked with a Schmunzeln. She nodded in agreement. "Anyway, Candice," he shot her a look to keep her quiet; but the look provoked the opposite, causing the girl to giggle, "was the first girl I really fell in love with. I was head over heels for six years before I asked her out, and then we got married in two months."

"That's sweet." She answered, giving him doe eyes. "But did the poetry help you then or after the divorce?"

"Then. Six years of longing and I filled it with poetry." He said amuseldy. "I will never do that again." He admitted. "It just made the longing stronger and made everything more painful."

"Did you write yourself?" Anne asked curiously. 

"I did, but I was never great at it. Mostly I'd make up a poem in a few minutes and call it a day. It takes hours to truely craft a beautiful piece, and well, it was always more of a spontaneous phenomenon for me." 

"Do you remember any by heart?" She asked. 

"No." He answered. Alistair wasn't lying; he seriously couldn't remember a single one of his works, and he'd tossed them all away when he'd met Monica in France. Not so much because he'd found a new lover, but because she used to write poetry herself and outshone him by far. In his embarassment he hadn't wanted her to ever read the words he'd written down. "And I have to say; politics is something for me, poetry isn't." 

"I can't see Adolf or Kurt making poetry either." She said with a laugh. "Maybe Joseph (Goebbels) he doesn't just have a way with words but he also has those big lovers eyes..." She remarked. Alistair shot her a look. 

"Do you fancy him?" He teased. 

"Um Gottes Willen, nein! He's far too old and picky. And I don't-."

"I'm not a day younger, Anne, I'm probably older than all of them." And that was the first time he realized it. He really was older than Hitler and Goebbels. The were pushing fifty, he already in his fifties. "I am older than them..." He marveled. "I never realised that until now."

"Yeah but you seem younger, you act younger." She explained. "Maybe because you're not such a druggie. Or maybe just because you're american and have better genes."

"You're saying german genes aren't the best?" Alistair asked with his eyebrows raised. 

"Of course they are! But..." Her but remained unspoken. She just shrugged and looked away, signalising that she wanted to drop the subject. By the time they walked into the driveway of the beautiful house the dinner was to be held in, they were immersed in a conversation about the Autobahn.