Fire...(for Lack of a Better Title)

Reading James Joyce in Brit. literature and was compelled to copy his style. Now to see if you guys can get the secret behind the story. :)

He stirred the fire with a stick. It was late afternoon, going on twilight. The red fire of the sky was quickly turning to a pale purple as the sun sank behind the mountains.

His spirits perked as he saw her walking across the field. He nudged the fire harder as a distraction, lifting his eyes in quick little jerks.

She was the minister’s daughter. If asked two weeks ago he would have called her but a child, but something had happened that Sunday of the picnic.

She had been sitting with her friends at the youth table. She must have been taking up some sort of challenge, for when she glanced at him her eyes were bright with excitement. And in that moment, his heart stopped. She smiled demurely, and turned her face away. But he was mesmerized. Bewitched. He found himself studying her. He remembered the crisp green of her dress, and the loose braid that fell across her shoulder.  How had he not noticed those long lashes, the soft curve of her cheek, or the strong tilt of her chin? It was as if that one glance from her had opened a whole new world to him. Suddenly he began seeking her out. And there she would be. In the market place, passing through the street, sitting at the park.

And here she was again. Making her way across the field. What had gotten into him? He was almost twice her age, and had not much interest in love before.

He could not help but watch the way her yellow dress swirled around her ankles and how she clutched it to herself occasionally, keeping it clear from the mud.

He thought of how lovely it would be to have her sitting across from him at his table. He had been rather lonely the past year, had he not?  He noted the light way in which she walked and the gentle swaying of her hips.

Maybe this was just the sort of thing he needed in his life after all- Stability. Excitement. He admired her hair, burning like fire against the sun’s light.

He had yet to speak to her, aside from the polite words here and there, but what did he have to lose? He watched the graceful movement of her hands- those soft, delicate hands- as she brushed her hair out of her eyes.

He would do it! In fact, he was not so old for it to be considered improper. And, he reasoned, she had not seemed dis-comforted when she caught him staring into her eyes. Those deep blue eyes. He could almost see now the delight in them as she raised her head to the sky, her face tilted slightly. He could almost make out the rosy hue of those lips that smiled to the sun.

He broke into a smile, convinced that, yes, he was in love and that yes, he was going to marry this minister’s daughter! By now, she had reached the far corner of the field, and just as she slipped behind the wall, she threw her head over her shoulder, her eyes meeting his.

Although it was for only a second, he could not mis-read the guileful grin that was on her face.

The fire died suddenly and only hot, black coals remained.