Two figures wended their way through the furry wildflowers. Tall, princely stems of greens: olive greens, bottle greens, soft greens like velvet, shiny greens like emerald, stark greens like Muscovite malachite; fierce saffron heads; soft-petalled crowns like vanilla marshmallows; these were the flowers one might find in the country. These were the flowers of safe places, high in the hills or deep in the valleys, beside babbling brooks or strong rivers. This swathe of gold and green and white – this was a well-worn carpet from home that held memories of good times and bad. The bright field contrasted with the blue above, as Olivier ran toward Josephine and Josephine ran to Olivier, they seemed almost backlit: stark and clear like a cold pool after a hot bath.

One could not tell if they were friends or lovers. Perhaps this was a one-off meeting.

In Josephine's vivid eyes was a blue fire, a subtle flirtation that might not have been there. They were dangerous eyes, both hot and cold with an impact that captivated, that was irresistable, but forced the unworthy away with their intensity. The fire licked and twisted at all that came close. Its gaze was sharp – as sharp as lemon juice. But lemon juice is tempting to the tongue that knows not the taste.

Olivier dared to look – once... twice... then, thrice and battled within himself but held his gaze. Then broke as he fell backwards into the grass.

His eyes were a plain brown like a glossy door of stained wood, beckoning and held slightly ajar. They opened up the soul and spun a yarn from the heart, of friendships and trials against adversity. But above all, they whispered of buoyant kindness on a roaring subconscious sea – a kindness that would come if tempted, but once arrived was tempted to overstay its welcome. They were naïve eyes, full of mirth and sorrow.

Josephine's laughter rang out, warm and deep. Her laughter and her smiles were rare... She usually sat or stood picturesque, never shifting her weight, never fussing over her appearance, but always maintaining a faraway expression that left Olivier wanton. She was like a faerie out of a dream. Her very presence evoked images of summer afternoons or mottled light drifting through a willow's canopy. Olivier relished in her laughter and her smiles: a sudden bird song and a flash of creamy white.

Across the pillowy foliage they rolled and reveled, finally coming to a gentle stop in the shade of a venturesome rowan with wide, low branches. Wild herbs grew about and the air was fragrant. Olivier, in naivety and genuine amity, wrapped his arms around her. His grasp was not a grasp, it was almost a caress – the caress of one friend to another. He brought her close and laughed. It was a warm embrace, tender and caring with platonic love. The hug of a friend.

Olivier did not know where he stood with Josephine. Was it something more than acquaintance or friendship in those cobalt pupils? A restrained hand, his hand, plucked a flower and pushed it through her light brown hair, behind her ear. Its bloom perfectly complimented her visage. He fell back and looked up to the sky.

What am I doing?