Slow Dancing

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Music was filling the living room at the same rate light was leaving it. I stood next to her as she moved to the beat. She looked good. Damn good. But, truth be told, the margaritas and our time in the heated pool had tuckered me out. I needed to get home.

She was smiling and looking at me with half-closed eyes as I watched her move to a honky-tonk favorite by Alan Jackson. (I didn't know it was possible to get excited over a song like that.)

She opened her arms and smiled, beckoning me to join her in a dance. I told her I couldn't, cuz of my foot. She wasn't listening. I wasn't either. What the hell. I tossed my glasses onto a nearby table and drew her close.

We began to move as one, rocking slowly to the music, gimbaled at our hips. She looked up at me. I held her tighter and we kissed.

"Mmmm", was all she said. I agreed.

After many songs, one by Janet Jackson started. "This one is my favorites", she whispered. By the end, it was one of mine too.

I hadn't danced like that since my days in Washington, DC 25 years ago. It was slow and sensual. Time didn't exist and no one cared.

The kind of dancing you enjoyed in the privacy of a dimly lit living room at the end of a special evening.

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