She arrived from Andover, on the eight thirty-five. On the train’s platform, she ran into her lover’s arms. He gripped her tightly, beheld her small figure like the ingredients of a splendidly delicious cauldron of nourishment.

They fed off each other, while kissing. But they would never be satisfied. For it would be a short trip. Until the next time, which would also be too short.

As they drove back to his place: “You can take a nap if you want,” he said. “I know it’s been a long day for you.”

“Not long enough,” she responded, while looking at long expanse of pastures jutted by the occasional tree in the distance. The setting sun had turned the landscape purple.

And her slightly blue. “The day is never long enough.”
“Nor the night,” he added.

But they made the best they could of that night. By morning, they promised this would be the last of the short days and the beginning of the longest nights.

And there would be greener pastures.