Dance

She smiles as he dances like a fool, trying to impress her. She laughs as he holds her hands in his, taking her with him on his wild romp. His eyes glitter with delight as she squeezes his hands, tickles his palms. Giggling with excitement, they hold each other close, tickling and nuzzling and kissing.

And she finds herself alone. His sweet lips, his shining eyes, his ever-loving arms, his lean legs, all gone. Nothing more than a flight of fancy. She reaches for the memory of him, trying to find the place he has gone to. But it's no use. He is nowhere to be found. She cannot see him, cannot hear him. He is gone.

The empty laughter dies, the smile fades from her face. Quietly, slowly, she becomes herself again. The deep lines of a frown are etched into her skin, her hands are c0ld, she is alone. His warmth is gone. It has been gone for a long, long time.

She cannot remember the last time he came to her. But every time, it has ended like this. His ever-loving arms gone from around her shoulders, his sweet lips gone from her cheek.

The old woman sobs, her thin shoulders quaking with grief. She buries her ancient, wrinkled face in her ancient wrinkled hands. She weeps.

And while she weeps, she waits.

She waits for him to dance again.