We went to the symphony on our first date and then somewhere for a bite to eat. I ordered a shrimp salad. A bit extravagant, probably, but I thought he was rich. His parents drove a Mercedes, after all, even though they were farm folk.
I remember how he encircled my right hand with his left and drew it close to his shoulder while his right arm embraced me, hand pressed against the small of my back.
How at the end of each dance, he squeezed me closer, just for a second, but I thought I would melt for the warmth of it.
We took some ballroom lessons later on, but we moved stiff. He was a weak leader, and I struggled to follow. We tripped up often. I liked how the instructor swung me around with authority. But we didn’t like having to change partners. Why do they do that?
Our dancing shoes hide somewhere in the recesses of his closet, I think.
I’ve been trying to dance with Julia. She’s been leading, but I haven’t been following very well, in spite of good intentions. Maybe because we’ve been trying to samba when I need to waltz. Anyway, I’ve stepped on her feet some, made some creative U-turns. Turned up the static. Discovered my procrastination may be a form of fear.
But today I got distracted by twittering outside the window. An event that demanded the camera while a dance played out on the bird feeder post.
What must have been a young (house?) finch perched on the post, just inches away from black oil. It fluttered back and forth until I’m guessing mom (or was it dad?) came to deliver lunch.
Mouth to mouth.
I forgot about Julia and just enjoyed the the play before me.
And somehow I think she would have approved.
Writing for five minutes with Lisa-Jo on the prompt dance.
And with Michelle in her new Graceful Summer community.