There was a trick to whistling with a blade of grass; a trick that Stephen could manage but for some reason whenever Mary tried, it was damps hands and shredded foliage instead of whistles.
“Don’t worry,” he told her, cleaning off her hands with his sleeve before snatching up more grass by the roots, “I will teach you.”
He showed her how to angle the blade against her lips, to blow over the blade and send sharp slices of sound flying across the fields between his house and hers.
“When I marry, everyone in the audience will have to whistle as I walk down the aisle; everyone except for you.” she said.
“I won’t have to whistle,” he whispered, leaning in close, “because when I grow up I’m going to be the one marrying you.”
Prompt taken from: Five Sentence Fiction