I walked the garden paths, past the fountain with spewing bronze elves, past the bust of a greenish benefactor with an aquiline nose and a crusty forehead. The grass gleamed in the wash of warm air, tickling shades of light and green. A young student, a girl, sat cross-legged on the hill side, a book nestled comfortably in her lap, her face turned up radiantly to bask in the sun’s shine. My thoughts paused for a moment as I tried to imagine what words lay in such intimate proximity to the girl’s heart, and smiled as I caught a glimpse and with an expert’s eye recognized the short lines of verse. Nipples erected ever so slightly behind her thin shirt, and I sauntered past, wishing I were younger or bolder or somehow knowing.
Lord Malinov, Journals of Lord Malinov