* * * * *
In a secluded train station, he and I were waiting for the train to arrive. We stood facing each other, staring into the seemingly endless train tracks in opposite directions.
Then he kissed me, in a gesture that was neither abrupt nor hesitant. It was his unmitigated right, and I gave him my unspoken surrender. Far away, we heard the whistle of our long awaited train.
Thus the best kiss yet of my thirty-year life occurred--in a dream.
The tragedy of Anna Karenina was nowhere to be found.
Birthday, Marc Chagall, 1915
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