Nightfall

He fell in his sixteenth year, on the 18th green, under a full, reddish-gold moon, a plump moon peeking like a neighbor from behind slippery, black-cloud curtains, a nosy neighbor watching through grimy spectacles with feigned disgusts and lunary lusts.

He fell onto soft, close-cut bentgrass already wet with dew.

He fell against naked and tanned skin chilled with bumps.

He fell into parted lips softer even, sweeter even, than the close-cut bentgrass.

He fell under her youthful must, lured by a callow perfume.

He fell throbbing to her pulse.

He fell a-whirl in his passion.

She fell soon after.