A Station

It was two years ago when snowfall associated love.

Buried in her scarf, she'd wait at Shinjuku station for the 7:33 train to arrive. Every night, just a few minutes before it pulled into the station, he would appear.

Out of breath.

Always relieved that he made it in time.

The train filled up quickly; he took the seat next to her, opening with:

"I really like your blue hair."

"Thank you."

Her shyness instinctively kicked in; she smiled and returned to her book; he kept staring.

"You're pretty. Hi, I'm Kazuo."

Ami smiled again; the butterflies of love fluttered.