I extend my hand and she embraces it.
“There’s no music to dance to.”
“There’s always music playing if you have the ear for it.”
She holds me close to her, so close that I can feel her breasts on my chest, so close that the lack of melody we hear melts into a metronome for our steps.
“You’re not such a bad dancer.” She says.
“Neither are you.” I wisecrack.
I twirl her and in her turning I see the skirt of her dress, filled with air, as she laughs.
She twirls back to me, and is facing me, and I’m looking straight into her face, lips close to lips.
“I told you,” she says. “That I wasn’t romantic.”
“Then what is this?” I reply, as I stare into her, then to the stone construction of the gazebo. I wonder when it was built- I wonder how many other couples danced upon it over the years.
“This.” She takes a breath then kisses me. “Is us.”
I feel her lips, her tongue, her soul and body wash over me. There are no words for what I feel- it’s euphoria. It’s what I imagine heroin to be- and even though I’m a virgin to the sweet black tar, the feeling of satiation washes over me as if I was thirsty standing under Niagara Falls.
We’re dancing on the gazebo, dancing with no music, if you don’t count two hearts pounding, pumping in a rhythm as close to love as possible.