A dance last weekend. One of her favourites, a monthly affair, themed. We used to go religiously. Last night I took a male friend. Dusted off an appropriate outfit; still in the dry cleaner's bag with her dress; an unpleasant surprise, the familiar feel of the silk between my fingers. Still held in the same place, even the dreadful lights are the same. Recognize some of the people, some of the outfits, definitely know the MC. I'm holding my breath as soon as we step through the archway. Bugger.
This was a big mistake. Huge. What was I thinking? Nefarious (names changed to protect the incurably indecent) has my arm, wrangles me into a chair. Drinks, he says. Being drunk will cure everything. He's at the bar for eons and I'm five years ago in the same suit, watching a tiny dark-eyed woman in a silver dress wend her way over to me. Excuse me, she says, my husband is a terrible bore and won't dance with me. Her eyes are mischievous, smile curling at the corner of her lips. Would you mind stepping in? I gesture to my cane, leg, shrug apologetically. She's got my hands, this time she won't take no for an answer. The next song's slow, we're not doing the jitterbug. She knows, requested it to lure me onto the dancefloor. She hooks my cane over the back of my chair, leads onto the dancefloor, leads the dance too. I murmur my complaints into her hair, her cheek pressed against my chest. Hand wrapped around hers, one arm around her back, the flat of her palm under my jacket. We don't move much, no athetics. After a handful of songs she's pestering me to see if I'm in pain. I am and I don't care, she's happy. It's the end of the night by the time we wander back to our things, trying not to lean too heavily on her. Someone's twirling my cane, joking about some people taking the theme too far. Hands it over, stammering, makes a joke about the war - and I'm the one taking the theme too far? She smiles up at me, something about being a hero, distracted by her wide smile, the hands on the small of my back and pressing my cane into my hand.
Nefarious is shaking my shoulder. Shit, yes. Now. I'm here. Present. I spend the entire evening drifting between memories of her in this hall and Nefarious. He succeeds in pulling me into one dance and then I retire, prefer to be the voyeur. Prefer to sit back and drift. We went there so often when we lived in London, annually when we returned, strangers smile and nod; remember me vaguely. It's hard not to recall her laughing, red lipstick, all dressed up; joking about not spending this much time getting ready in the past twelve months back home. Doesn't believe me when I say she's exactly as beautiful after all this effort as she is after showering in the rain. Punches me in the arm, should have said earlier, she wouldn't have bothered. Smiles, kisses my cheek and scrubs off the red lipstick with her fingers. Mostly I watch her flirt and dance and smile, stealing glances back at me all the time. Sometimes we take friends to our evening. They ask how I can watch her flirting and dancing. It's easy. She comes back to me. With an undignified crash into the seat beside me, pressed close, hand under my jacket, lips warm against my ear; "did you see him? He was far more handsome than you. I think I will let him take me home." Grinning wickedly before pulling me down into fierce kisses. She always came back to me.
This was a big mistake. Huge. What was I thinking? Nefarious (names changed to protect the incurably indecent) has my arm, wrangles me into a chair. Drinks, he says. Being drunk will cure everything. He's at the bar for eons and I'm five years ago in the same suit, watching a tiny dark-eyed woman in a silver dress wend her way over to me. Excuse me, she says, my husband is a terrible bore and won't dance with me. Her eyes are mischievous, smile curling at the corner of her lips. Would you mind stepping in? I gesture to my cane, leg, shrug apologetically. She's got my hands, this time she won't take no for an answer. The next song's slow, we're not doing the jitterbug. She knows, requested it to lure me onto the dancefloor. She hooks my cane over the back of my chair, leads onto the dancefloor, leads the dance too. I murmur my complaints into her hair, her cheek pressed against my chest. Hand wrapped around hers, one arm around her back, the flat of her palm under my jacket. We don't move much, no athetics. After a handful of songs she's pestering me to see if I'm in pain. I am and I don't care, she's happy. It's the end of the night by the time we wander back to our things, trying not to lean too heavily on her. Someone's twirling my cane, joking about some people taking the theme too far. Hands it over, stammering, makes a joke about the war - and I'm the one taking the theme too far? She smiles up at me, something about being a hero, distracted by her wide smile, the hands on the small of my back and pressing my cane into my hand.
Nefarious is shaking my shoulder. Shit, yes. Now. I'm here. Present. I spend the entire evening drifting between memories of her in this hall and Nefarious. He succeeds in pulling me into one dance and then I retire, prefer to be the voyeur. Prefer to sit back and drift. We went there so often when we lived in London, annually when we returned, strangers smile and nod; remember me vaguely. It's hard not to recall her laughing, red lipstick, all dressed up; joking about not spending this much time getting ready in the past twelve months back home. Doesn't believe me when I say she's exactly as beautiful after all this effort as she is after showering in the rain. Punches me in the arm, should have said earlier, she wouldn't have bothered. Smiles, kisses my cheek and scrubs off the red lipstick with her fingers. Mostly I watch her flirt and dance and smile, stealing glances back at me all the time. Sometimes we take friends to our evening. They ask how I can watch her flirting and dancing. It's easy. She comes back to me. With an undignified crash into the seat beside me, pressed close, hand under my jacket, lips warm against my ear; "did you see him? He was far more handsome than you. I think I will let him take me home." Grinning wickedly before pulling me down into fierce kisses. She always came back to me.
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