Observant observers can observe such observances:

They lie in the grass, spooned together. They are younger than I am, in their late teens, and a study in contrasts. Of the two, he is the slim and willowy one, a body constructed with a dancer’s build. His hair is ribboned in dreadlocks. He wears a colorful chapeau, an oversized t-shirt, and denim shorts. Her hair is straight, a long and Nordic blonde. She wears a bit of flesh on top of muscle, but it suits her constitution amiably. Her skirt extends to the calves, but it is split and not fully buttoned on the side. The size of her breasts makes her top swell.

I’ve been witness to moments like these. It fills me with a sense of regret, sadness, hope, and happiness all at the same time. It’s a strange mixture.

When my look returns to them, her skirt is bunched up. His hand has shifted to the outside of her thigh, where the contact is less blatant than before. The fingers tickle up and down between the line of the muscles. She covers his dusky palm with hers and scratches. His grasp on the smooth, pale skin is passive instead of possessive, though sexual all the same. She curls her bare foot against his and stretches her arm behind her to clasp the back of his head.

I imagine moments like these to be sun-drenched and over-exposed, like any bright Spring day should be, with colors too-vibrant and blown out. And I ache, a little.