“Come on, we can dance to it,” said he.
“I’ve only taught you the Jitterbug,” I replied self-consciously. “I don’t think it’ll go well with I’ll never Smile Again.”
He laughed. “I never said that I didn’t know how to waltz, Blackbird.”
And then we danced, slowly, gently; I felt his hands resting shyly upon my hips as my own hands touched his shoulders. I remember drifting closer and closer, Benjamin pulling me in until my forehead brushed his chest. I could feel the rise and fall of his breath under the soft flannel of his shirt, and as I looked up at him, at his closed eyes, at his smile, at the yellow halo of kerosene light that eclipsed his head and shoulders, I suddenly wanted to kiss him. It seized me out of nowhere and left me dumfounded, struggling with this alien, prodigious longing. And still we danced, our feet disturbing the dust and sending it into our little circle of illumination. The dust turned gold and swam, flashed and sifted, and I was suddenly reminded of sand in an hourglass.
So harmonized, so steady, so fleeting.
This night is one of my fondest scenes: I often replay it in my mind whenever I choose to look back. I know that I wanted to dance with him longer, I know that I wanted to remain so close and comfortable with this strange and wonderful boy. But no song, however beautiful, can go on forever.
Art, writing, characters (c) me