The night enchanted… a call of the unknown lingered in the air. Mayfly could not resist the colorful lights hung outside the Mexican restaurant. The warmth of the light matched the heat of the night — heat that clung to the skin, but not the kind that felt like sticky ice cream smeared by a clumsy child. It was more like a caress… a gentle, lingering touch.

If anyone is wondering whether Mayfly was an actual mayfly, the answer is yes, according to Wind. Before anyone could ask, Wind wanted to clarify that she was indeed an insect — before anyone thought about grabbing a fly swatter.

Mayfly, the insect, lifted her head to receive Wind’s kiss. She wore something like a fedora that had blown her way. It came to her like a gift. She did not contemplate who had worn it before — it was a gift, and gifts require no questions.

Wind had blown the hat. He knew it was meant for her. Wind saw what others could not — or refused to see. It was meant for her at that moment of eternity she lived in — a very short life span.

All mayflies barely live to see another day. Yet did that cause her to feel the unfairness of it? Not at all — at least, Wind did not think so. Time was relative to her, or rather, time held no meaning for her. To one like Mayfly, a single day was eternity, whereas to a human being, lingering death was something to be avoided at all costs. Humans evaded the passing of time, forever afraid of losing it. They confused Time greatly. He could not be lost — yet humans insisted upon it.

Humans confused Time, and nevertheless he ticked on — though he really did not and existed though he was invisible. How can something be both invisible and real? Indeed. Yet Time supposedly existed, though one could neither touch nor see him. So you can understand why Time was confused. Yet, like a clock, Time moved forward and never backwards.

Time did not believe in going backwards. And hopefully no one thought to question him on it, for he had no wish to experience headaches — though he did not get headaches. At least, he hoped not.

Wind thought but did not dwell — his path was always hither and thither. When he brushed past trees, those who observed him swore they saw him become visible. Yes, the trees somehow gave the invisible Wind a form. They grasped him and shaped him into something seen. He was, then, no longer invisible. The onlooker gasped, seeing Wind merge into existence, looking as though he might charge into their very home.

So what did Mayfly do when Mosquito peered at her so unexpectedly? She attempted to be polite. He seemed brave, peering at a stranger like that. Not only was she an étranger, but she was not even a mosquito — she was a mayfly, a foreigner. It was dangerous ground to tread. Mosquito, however, was feeling adventurous. He dared to leap the boundary Mayfly had drawn around herself.

Suddenly all became like a passage of dreams. Mosquito whisked her away to another setting entirely, one that delighted her. Their wings beat and they flew. He made her feel vertigo — yet how she laughed. The zippy Mosquito placed her on a scooter and said, “Hold tight.”

The ride brought trembling and fear. It was Mayfly’s first time on a scooter — and her last. Yet it held no tristesse, only the feeling of togetherness on a shared journey.

She thought she remembered seeing lovers sharing scooters at the time of her birth, in the morning. Now, as the stars rose and the day neared its end, she felt the joie de vivre — the kind that would soon slip away from her, yet in this moment it encompassed her completely and made her whole.

Mosquito felt as though they were having a Roman Holiday, like the film he had once glimpsed. They had met for the first time that very day, yet they moved through adventures as though they had known each other always. They did not follow the trajectories set by life — instead they followed Wind, who took them everywhere and nowhere. And that feeling was the kind that made you fly, as he and Mayfly did. They had wings, after all.

Seeing her screaming with joy, Mosquito asked, “Shall I see you tomorrow?”

Mayfly smiled and replied, “What is tomorrow?”

At that moment of fullness, tomorrow already existed. Yet was there any regret? Did Mosquito feel the unfairness that Mayfly would turn to vapor when the moon faded? Would he still enjoy the rising sun alone? Would he regret having dared to enjoy the company of one so different from his own kind? He thought nothing of it. The rising sun would know his thoughts in time — but for Mosquito, there was no regret. He was too busy making sure Mayfly did not fall off the scooter and acquire an egg on her head.