The Hayloft – Part 1: Milking

"Four a.m.," said Megan, with deep feeling.

"I know."

"Four a.m. is a time for burglars."

"It's a time for cows," said Jake, and handed her a bucket.

They stood in a dim barn in Vermont, in borrowed rubber boots, surrounded by thirty patient black-and-white Holsteins breathing steam into the cold air. A single bulb glowed. Their friend Tom, the farmer, was recovering from a bad back, and had begged them to cover his milking for the weekend. They had said yes in a fit of nostalgia.

She was thirty-eight, an accountant, practical, in a woolly hat. He was forty-one, a carpenter, broad and mild, with a gentle drawl. They had been married fifteen years. In the last five, they had mostly passed each other in the kitchen at dawn, carrying coffee.

"Hands warm?" said Jake.

"I'm a bit scared."

"They're gentle."

"I'm scared of the cow."

"Her name is Dolly."

Megan sat on the stool beside Dolly's warm flank and attempted to milk, with disastrous results. Milk sprayed across Jake's trousers. He bore it with dignity. She tried again. A thin silver stream rang in the bucket. She gasped.

"It works!"

"You're a natural."

"I'm a farmer."

By six, the barn was bright with sun, the milk was cooling in steel tanks, and they sat on a bale of hay outside with two mugs of coffee. Mist rose from the pasture. Birds shouted in the maples. Her hair was full of straw.

"Can I ask you something?" said Megan.

"Yes."

"Do you remember when we used to be silly?"

"We still are," said Jake. "We just forget to do it."

"Green?" she said, the old word.

"Green," said Jake, softly. "Very green. Come on. Dolly needs a brushing."

Continue the story: Part 2 – After Dark.