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.
