[One dance, and then he disappears from her life forever. As it should be: she has enough complications in her life, she has enchanted (and been enchanted by) enough men, she has had her heart broken for so many years that it aches to count them all, she has grown jaded and tired of so much of everything, like a black heart borne from the glamor of a lustrous pearl.
She is still wary of the low clatter of footsteps, or the rustle of flowers and tree branches snapping underfoot, but there is only the ghostly echo of the band to be heard. Swaying to some phantom tune, she imagines all the things she could say: I didn't mean it, what I said before. She could explain: When I said everything was lovely and wonderful. It was perfect, for a short while. She could bare herself for a moment of honesty, revealing to him something bitter and dark which she tries so hard to sweeten with the luxuries she can afford. She could lay herself vulnerable and confess all the things she has stored up her in heart, having fallen on deaf ears countless of times: But in the end, everything is becoming just awful. And it's the most morbid thing of all.
None of this, however, is ever spoken.
Rather, she appreciates the solid warmth of his hand against her hip, not minding the slight limp complicating their rhythm, and presses herself closer into his arms. She exhales, her breathing uneven and fragile, her eyes closing to ward off the pressing tension, distracting her from this moment, trying not to allow her emotions to overcome her, to give him the kindest goodbye she can.]
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She is still wary of the low clatter of footsteps, or the rustle of flowers and tree branches snapping underfoot, but there is only the ghostly echo of the band to be heard. Swaying to some phantom tune, she imagines all the things she could say: I didn't mean it, what I said before. She could explain: When I said everything was lovely and wonderful. It was perfect, for a short while. She could bare herself for a moment of honesty, revealing to him something bitter and dark which she tries so hard to sweeten with the luxuries she can afford. She could lay herself vulnerable and confess all the things she has stored up her in heart, having fallen on deaf ears countless of times: But in the end, everything is becoming just awful. And it's the most morbid thing of all.
None of this, however, is ever spoken.
Rather, she appreciates the solid warmth of his hand against her hip, not minding the slight limp complicating their rhythm, and presses herself closer into his arms. She exhales, her breathing uneven and fragile, her eyes closing to ward off the pressing tension, distracting her from this moment, trying not to allow her emotions to overcome her, to give him the kindest goodbye she can.]