03

He caught her eye, and smiled, pressing his forehead against her cheek,

“Dance with me.”

He waited for no response, reaching for her hand, releasing it from the cold glass her crimson fingers encased.

Their feet found their way to the dance floor, the music guiding their bodies, their hands gently pressed against the others, as she rested her head against his, and danced.

In this moment, as a pair of lovers slowly moved in each other’s arms in dim light, there was no tomorrow, no goodbye.

They, in this moment, could pretend this was their forever.

The trumpets gently oozed, the saxophone raised higher as a smiling faced man pressed it to his lips.

Nimble fingers ran across ivory keys, and echoed the hearts of this tragic pair, music giving this torn couple their tiny piece of forever.

Her fingers traced his uniform, pulling at his badges, catching her nails under the loose stitching.

His eyes only lay on hers.

Their eyes closed to the music, locked in this moment, each committing it to memory, to relive over and over until they would be together once again.

She would sit on her porch, watching the sun turn the sky to fire as it set, as he would lie in trenches, mud lining his aching back, and each, would wait for the moon to shine, and think of the other.

They would think of this night, they would hear that voice, see those lips press against the metal ribs of a microphone. They would hear their song.

He would think of how her red hair curled against her neck that night, how her skin turned crimson each time he kissed her cheek.

She would pull splinters from that wooden porch, and relive their dance, shutting her eyes as she traced those calm, solemn steps. She would remember his smile, and feel her lips tingle as she did.

As the song drew to a close, and the night began to end, the couple merely held one another, in defiance to the next day, and Glenn Miller played out their final tune; a lover’s final bliss.