Writing

Two real moments merged to the fictitious

They walked, the lake to one side, in the gathering twilight. The sky was a beautiful riot of purples, blues, reds and oranges as the sun sunk into the water at their left.
“Duck!” he said, needlessly pointing to the gathering of waterfowl. The compulsion to quote was so strong, she didn’t even try to resist.
“Behold the duck. It does not cluck,” she said. “A cluck it lacks; it quacks. It’s especially fond of a puddle or pond. When it dines or sups, it’s bottom’s up.” He stopped and turned to her, green eyes vibrant in the last of the day’s light.
“I love you,” he said, the sentiment warm and sincere. She smiled at him in bemusement.
“Why?”
“Because,” he paused, trying to find the words. “Because you quote poetry like it was the most natural thing in the world.”
“That’s because it is!” she said laughing, and the smile turned from bemusement to endearment.
They embraced and stood as the last sun-rays dipped below the horizon, before walking on.