I knew a nymph once.

Or was she a sylph? No, no, she was a dryad, a woman of the trees. She was tall. Her legs were sinewy and smooth. Her body was hairless. The point where her thighs met was intoxicating to me.

I pursued her for months, begging at first to lay with her, then to kiss her, at last just to lay beneath her canopy, her arms stretched upwards, her breasts pointed down and out. But each time I entreated her, she said, “Catch me.” And she ran. On and on, she ran.

I loved that dryad. I swear I loved her. She took me by a tree that was over two-hundred years old. It had seen generations rise up, pass away and be forgotten. We roamed past streams and a massive boulder that stuck out from the side of a cliff. As inhospitable as it was, grass and moss had found a way to grow upon it.

The season changed, and I still had not caught that dryad. Chasing her, I saw beautiful rain and cloudless skies. I smelled the air and felt alive in a way I hadn’t ever before. But days and weeks and months went on, and I never caught that dryad. I never kissed her. I never found my way to that heavenly place where her thighs met.

I swear I loved her. I swear I almost cried when I realized I’d never have her. But in the midst of a field, the last place I chased her and after watching her slip beyond the horizon once more, I fell to my knees. There were flowers all around me, and I simply thanked her.