It was the blush of roses, that peek of champagne pink. The colour infused cheeks dimpled with the blossoming smile and her eyes shone in a way that only deep happiness can bring.
The laughter wasn't the sound of friends, but of emotional hyenas. Their voices come to me without end, playing like a track, looping back to the start with seamless ease. I close my eyes only to see theirs, full of judgement, full of delight, no trace of caring. How my cheeks had burned hot, how the sight had egged them on - my embarrassment, their tonic.
She could feel the heat growing in her cheeks. By now they must be beyond an attractive rosiness. They must be marking her out as a social incompetent. She felt as if all her insecurities were writ large across her face and there was nowhere to hide. As her anxieties mounted they became a circle, like a song stuck on repeat.
"Why, no, of course you didn't, Aunt Polly!" she hurried on, with a hot blush.
Found in Pollyanna, authored by .
Rory suppressed a smile. He could tell from her blush that she really liked him. Her usual even brown had a rosiness to it, it was cute.