Hisaya Amagishi

“First love is like the measles,” a song from an old opera went. “The older you get, the harder it grips you, and the harder it gets to let go.”

I’ll take them.”

“Volf!” Dahlia shouted as she heard Volf’s unhesitating reply.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. You are husband and wife?”

“No, no, we’re not married,” Dahlia hurriedly explained.

“Please forgive my mistakes. I make many of them in my old age. But it is true, I find, that people become more alike the more they share each other’s company. Be they friends, lovers, or husband and wife, it is the same.” With a kind smile, the old man half filled both their cups with the remaining estervino from the serving bottle. “You two appear very similar to my old eyes.”

Dahlia could also imagine a day when she felt more than friendship for Volf. However, she knew that if she confessed those feelings and found that they weren’t mutual, that could sever the bond they shared. Volf would surely think she was just like all the other women he’d known and distance himself from her. She would do anything to avoid that.