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The dance






"Dance with me," he said, his voice barely audible above the noise of  Cubana on a Saturday Night. (http://www.cubana.co.za/Home.aspx

I reached for a familiar hand and he drew me up, my eyes saying yes, my body leaning into his warmth. This felt strange, us on a dance floor after all these years. We danced when we were dating, we dance with our children at parties, we dance when we are alone and feel foolish and frivolous.

 But not like this.

He steered me through the crowded room tightly packed with young people buzzed on spirits; on the weekend; on life. We were out of place here in the crowd of singletons hooking-up, hanging-out and souped-up on the thrill of the chase.


Cubana was pulsing with primitive beats, dancers gyrating with wild abandonment, women owning their sexiness: hips swaying, butts popping, bodies rocking...and cocktails flowing freely enough to allow for questionable choices and dodgy morning-afters.


He stopped in the centre of the throng of people and we became one with them, moving, swaying; the rhythm sweeping us up, our bodies pressed tight. He encircled me in his arms and I could no longer tell where I ended and he began.

"I'm glad we came," he said.
"What?" I asked above the noise.
"I said, I'm glad we came!!!!"
I nodded in agreement, placing my head against his chest.
How could anyone feel like home?

We stayed for the speeches, and the hugs and said teary goodbyes to an old colleague. I was glad we came to say adieu to John.

"Time to head home." 
I gave him the sign, he nodded his head in the direction of the exit and we left, huddled together against the cold of midnight.
He set the heater to blast at my feet...mmmm...toasty. 
He leaned over me, I sniffed his scent deeply as he inched forward; grabbing hold of the seat belt to buckle me in.
"Precious cargo," he said, still cheesy after all these years.
"Good to go?"
"Good to go," I replied turning on the radio.
 Shakira was playing; I sang along with the chorus;  her words, my sentiment:


Underneath Your Clothes
There's an endless story 
There's the man I chose 
There's my territory
And all the things I deserve
For being such a good girl honey
See the lyrics at http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/shakira/underneathyourclothes.html


I glanced at him through lowered eyelids, the headlamps of oncoming cars casting flashes of light on him; his face was rigid, his focus fierce while concentrating in the thick fog that covered the road in danger.
We pulled up at the traffic light and he leaned over.
"Remember this?" he said and he kissed me softly.
I smiled remembering how we used to pray for the traffic lights to say STOP for this very reason.These days we fumed when we were stopped at the red light, cursing the delay...
"I remember!" 

25 years is a lifetime.
A lifetime filled with memories.
Memories of the little things, simple things that get lost in the craziness of raising kids, buying a house, going to work to afford said house & cars & education & family vacations & stuff & rainy days...

Memories lost.
Moments forgotten.
Seemingly small moments brushed aside, like dancing so close that your heartbeats become in sync, like kisses at the robots for no reason, like the twinkle in his eye when he sees you approaching... 

It becomes easy to forget: that he is your home; that you found your sanctuary underneath his clothes, in his arms, buried deep in his eyes.

And all it took to remind you, was a dance.
A dance that loosened the cobwebs and brought the simple things flooding back to you on a cold winter's night on the lighter side of midnight in the twilight of your life.

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