May 13th, 2002 - 8:45 p.m.

Spring time can only be for...

Delicately coolish day. That dramatic lighting that can only be seen when the luminous spring sun is shielded by an translucent layer of cloud. A fine mist suspended in the atmosphere; scented by cut grass, the breath of Spring as she yawns and sleepily summons the branches and seeds to bud.

A day for holding the hand of a lover and strolling on winding paths guarded by trees. The hair consistently dampish.

A day for public passionate kisses. The back pressing into the harsh bark of a large oak tree; the hands on the small of the back, cradling the base of the neck. The osmosis of warmth through cloth. The intense pulse. The yearning press of body against body. The smell of skin. Sigh, the moments before complete abandon.

It is also a day for picturesque breakups. The soft fall of tears. A tender good bye. The last daring stroke of soft cheek. Walking separate ways. Hands in pockets. A slight smile at the memory of time shared. Tears streaming down the face, marrying the rain.

But instead, she is alone. In a caf�. Dining on crepes.

"But Boris, he warms the cockles of my heart."

"Oh, great. That's just what we need, warm cockles."

N.

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