As he would touch her skin, she would always flinch. And her skin would always get funny-looking goosebumps. He would smile, and she would smile back knowing that the soft finger-tip touch is just the beginning. It always is.
She was a little naïve girl, who had left her head somewhere in a smoke-filled bar, where they met long time ago. She was artistic. Feminine. Short and bubbly. And she adored autumn. She would kick piles of leaves in the towns forgotten street, where the two of them used to walk on Sundays after a sophisticated saxophone concert and a grand cup of cappuccino in a cozy secluded café somewhere in Boulevard. She would take a couple of reddish-looking maple leaves to twist a rose afterwards. She would get lost in magical autumn colors and he would get lost in her. They knew – its another season; another reason for making love.