She gasped as he eased inside, her voice joining the chorus of tree frogs, crickets, and the muted cries and moans from couples in the surrounding forest.

Gods, but she’s sweet, he thought. How could I have missed this? But William? Would he approve?

He retreated and advanced, taking his time at first. The fingers of one hand cradled a full breast, the other tangled in her hair as he pulled Anna’s face to his. Doubts evaporated as he sank into her essence.

“Oh, Cyril,” she cried, “it’s so, so good!”

What? Who’s Cyril? Christ, she’s the wrong one. God damned fucking Saint What’s-Her-Name!

“Don’t be gentle, Sweet! We’ve waited so long!”

She was the wrong one, but he kept going. Her cries and the others in the forest spurred him on. It had been a while, and there was no stopping.

He lifted his head, trying to see the small forest clearing and listening for anyone close. There was no moon, and thick clouds covered the stars. The warmth of the day was fading as the dew fell. There didn’t seem to be anyone else nearby, but it was impossible to be sure.

He gave the woman his full attention once more, not caring what William or Anna or gods-damned Cyril or anyone else thought.

~~~

Dearest Lawrence,

I write to you as spring breaks in our little village. The long winter is at last over. The fields are muddy with the thaw, and the trees are bursting into bud. As winter is a time of endings and death, so spring brings death to winter!

When my beloved William succumbed to the lingering illness three winters ago, he begged me to go on with my life. You were there, as I remember, his oldest, best friend. He asked you to watch over me, and you’ve done just that, checking in from time to time.

William was always grateful for your friendship. Of course, in the manner of men, he probably never told you. But in our quiet times, especially toward the end, he often spoke of how good his life had been. He even dared tell me of some of your exploits while in the legion! He didn’t speak of battles or missions, but of stolen moments with farm girls and lonely wives. I am surprised either of you had the strength to fight from the stories he told!

I wonder, did he ever tell you of the legend we tell here in St. Christopher’s Parish, the one of St. Catherine and St. Christopher? There is a longer version, but for brevity’s sake, I will save that for when we meet in person. Suffice to say that we have a feast day in late spring or early summer when those, let us say mature individuals, who tire of being alone, can come together in anonymity. If they choose, they may continue a relationship after the feast and there is no judgement, no recrimination.

On the evening of the feast, the village gathers in the square. Women, widows and spinsters usually, wishing to end their loneliness, leave the gathering quietly and, taking a dark lantern, go into the forest. A pathway is maintained by the older men in the parish, with small clearings of soft forest grass and wildflowers.

The women choose their positions and get comfortable. When the night is full, men slip away into the forest. Sometimes when they couple, sparks fly! And sometimes they fizzle. Either way, everyone is less lonely when they make their way home.

As it happens, dear Lawrence, the feast of St. Catherine and St. Christopher happens in three weeks as I write this. My granddaughter has convinced me to take part. I intend to be in the forest that night.

Of course, the “feasting” is meant to be anonymous, but it is not uncommon for couples to take advantage of the custom. 

If you are available, I do hope you’ll be here to celebrate new beginnings.

With much love,

Anna

~~~

“You’re not Cyril.”

Her arms wrapped around his neck as she petted his hair.

“No, er… sorry.”

She shivered beneath him, caressing his shoulders.

“Mmm. Don’t be. I mean, obviously, you’ve got to move on. But I do hope you find someone. That was divine.”

She kissed him one last time, then helped him back into his robe.

It was pitch black under the trees. He had to trust his hands and feet to find the path.

Then someone was in front of him. He cleared his throat. The last thing he needed was to be mistaken for a woman in the dark.

“Hey,” the man said. “Just passed a woman back that way, on your right. Waiting for the one.”

“Me too,” Lawrence said. “On your left.”

He imagined that they nodded to each other and moved away.

There were furtive sounds all around, gasps and moans, skin sliding on skin. He was hard again just listening to it.

“Hello?” he called in a hoarse whisper. 

“Hello,” a voice responded to his right.

He reached out and touched a shoulder. She flinched, but didn’t retreat.

“I’m not here for just anyone,” she said tentatively.

“Nor am I.”

He stepped closer.

He slid his hand from her shoulder to her waist. It was perhaps not as slender as when she first married his friend, but he recognized her smell. Fresh-cut flowers and vanilla, maybe.

“Is it you?”

“Yes. It’s Lawrence, I mean.”

Her hands came to his face and pulled him to her. She was crying and kissing as she melted into his arms, crushing herself to him.

They sat and reclined, pulling, petting, disrobing.

“It seems I’m not your first tonight,” she said into his mouth while stroking his erection.

“No. Sorry. I thought she was you. She all but attacked me.”

“I’m glad. You’ll last longer this way.”

Anna mounted him, sliding down with a cry of pure pleasure.

“Oh, my gods, that is so nice,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time. 

He sat up, arms around her back, and held her there, impaled.

“Are you sure you want an old grouch like me?” he asked.

She ground herself into him, kissing his shoulder and biting.

“As long as you want me, too.”

~~~

They walked to her house, hand in hand, as the waning crescent moon rose through the shredding clouds.

“You don’t have a regular home, do you?” Anna asked.

“No. Never settled down like William. How long were you two married?”

“Thirty-five years. He was cycling out of the army.”

“He always was smarter than me,” Lawrence said.

Anna agreed.

“You’re welcome to stay,” she said after a moment. “For as long as you like.”

“Won’t the priest have a problem with that? Will he still marry us?”

“Is that a proposal?”

He had spoken without thinking. He just assumed.

“I guess. Yes. I’d like to marry you.”

“Good. Yes, the priest will do it. That’s the custom. No judgement after the feast. Sometimes there are pregnancies, odd pairings. What might be fuel for gossip otherwise is accepted.”

They strolled in contented silence for a time.

“I wouldn’t even have written to you if it weren’t for my granddaughter,” Anna said.

“She didn’t want you to be lonely?”

“Yes. But she fell in love with a stable boy. He’s black as coal and has no family. Came to the village a year ago.”

There were black men in the legion, but Lawrence had never seen them in the villages.

“She’s being courted by two boys from wealthy families. Many would be unhappy if she chose a black man; her family, the other boys’ families.”

Lawrence nodded, but he didn’t understand. All the black men he knew were like him, only a different color.

“But April’s mind was made up. Or, rather, her heart was made up. She wanted me to take some of the pressure off her.”

“She’s going to marry him, then?”

“Assuming he found her. He got lost in the forest and ran into me. Like the two men before, I gave him an old-fashioned hand job and sent him on his way.”

Lawrence laughed.

“I was your fourth last night? I don’t feel quite so bad then.”

She squeezed his arm.

“Technically, you were. But I didn’t get undressed, or let them fuck me.”

“Yeah. Okay, sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. It was so dark, I couldn’t have told Cyril from the rest, anyway.”

Lawrence stopped, causing Anna to stop with him.

“Cyril? That’s an odd name.”

“Isn’t it? But it might be common where he’s from,” she said.

He shook his head and resumed walking.

Fucking Saint What’s-Her-Name, he thought.