The music died in fits and starts, but we danced on. There were other couples around us for a while, comforting shapes in the soft gloom, and one gently sobbing saxophone to take our time from, but they drifted away, all of them, in the end. They had other places to be, perhaps, or people who needed them, but we only ever need one another, he and I.
Or maybe they just got tired, as even I get tired, now and then, and draw away, begging for rest, trying to resist the pull of his deep brown eyes.
“Just one more dance, baby, what harm can it do?”
I have a presentiment then, as vivid as a memory, of a sudden catastrophe, barely comprehended, of a gas explosion or a bomb blast ripping through the pretty room. And I laugh at myself, for how could such a thing touch us here? And I let him draw me close again, admonishing him weakly that it must be just one more, as he has promised, even though a corner of my mind understands, and knows that as long as we dance this place will be here for our dancing, and perhaps for others, if they have eyes to see.
This one’s just a random tale, just because …
Alex Brightsmith 