I am walking in the park, hand in hand with this beautiful, brown-haired girl. We are free; free and happy, arms swinging, we smile. I bend down to the ground, pick up a daffodil, broken at the stem, and slip it behind her ear. She kisses me on the cheek, and we continue to grin. A man with a dog walks by us, I know him, his dog is named Trucker and he owns a yoga studio on Main Street. I go there for classes sometimes. For now we smile at him, look slyly at one another, barely supressing our giggles, and she bursts out, in a spanish accent, "Hola, sir! What a beootiful dog you have there!" The dog pants, and smiles back in that way that only dogs have mastered. I look at the dog, and agree in my best british accent, "Why yes, she's so darling!" The man smiles at us, rolls his eyes, and walks away laughing, and waving. We go with the wind, as it blows through the branches of a willow tree by the pond, blowing eastward, and eventually we come to sit on a bench that faces the setting sun. Not that we can see that sun, it's hidden behind houses, a playground, hills and a baseball field, among other things. We sit and hold hands, silent for a few moments, before she quotes Puck's speech, at the end of A Midsummer Night's Dream, and stands up, walking away with a spring in her step that wasn't quite there upon our arriving. I sit and bathe in the light of remembering our afternoon together, and I am happy. I get up and leave, wandering a well-worn path between trees with leaves unfurling, and bushes enveloped by bursts of lilac flowers. Finally, I come to the road again, and forget the perfect fantasy which I have lived, now I am all business; I mourn for what I have left behind, and wish desperately for the future not to come, while I stare intentely at the cracked, eroding sidewalk ahead of me, in an effort not to trip.