By laurel ahlfeld drama_queen_ja@hotmail.com
Date: 9 April 2001
Dance at Dusk
This week has been the longest, most aggravating of my life.
Not knowing what you're doing. Wondering how you feel about me.
Finally deciding it all has to end or else one of us will get
hurt. Those seven days were nothing compared to the drive to
your house, organizing my thoughts and preparing what must be
said. Your signals seemed to be telling me you no longer
wanted to participate either. So it was settled. Then I pulled
into your drive, and it all became unsettled. You had been
waiting for me at the door. Slyly, you stepped out in your
tuxedo, looking more handsome than I remembered. You offered
your arm to escort me inside. How could I have not accepted?
So, arm in arm we walked to the kitchen where you continued
the dinner preparations. I wonder how you knew fettuccini
alfredo was my favorite. You quietly led me outside to a tiny
table, garnished only with a perfectly white table cloth, an
exquisitely blooming red rose, and an unlit candle. The patio
had been surrounded by Tiki torches, and your rambunctious dog
was put away for the night. You quickly set the table and lit
the candles just in time for the sunset. We watched in awe,
together, while you tried to convince me that you arranged
that just for me. My face grew hot with bashfulness, my heart
had begun to fill with butterflies, and my mind allowed the
lines I'd memorized twenty minutes earlier to deteriorate
into disjointed fragments. We started our dinner. And we
ended the night dancing barefoot to nothing but the sound of
our hearts beating and the flickering pulse of the Tiki flames.
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