Conventional Stories

I could live on this feeling forever. In the moon gilded, firefly sparked interval between the idyllic hideaway of Mr. Weston's home and the return to real life, I slid in a barefoot promenade across the newly mowed nap of his front yard. The dewy bouquet of suburban lawn infused the humid air and overwhelmed the vervaine trace of his good night kiss on my cheek, his fourth one. Four weeks. Four euphoric encounters. Each...