Slow Dance
Copyright (c) 1994, J. Harlan Pine
All rights reserved




                           Slow Dance
                               by
                         J. Harlan Pine


     It is not the memory, but the memory of the memory that 
matters.  Truth isn't an issue, and starting over is not a 
possibility.
     The memory of the memory--the moment--will be with me 
forever.  Long after old age has settled within my bones and 
memories begin to fade, this one will remain vivid--sharp--as the 
night I experienced it.
     Light from the room streamed outward silhouetting her in a 
Man Ray aurora of color and movement.  The light from the street 
lamp--stark, white, piercing--forced her features into sharp 
contrast of light and shadow.  Standing in the doorway, half 
turned to enter or leave, (her petit frame providing little 
obstacle to the others who came or went) she spoke to someone I 
couldn't see.  She brushed short auburn hair from her eyes, and 
though I couldn't hear her voice, a thrill shot through me when 
she smiled at what was being said.  I stood staring at her while 
people passed me on the street.  Her beauty illuminated the night 
and I basked in its glow.
     I studied her, as might a Renaissance master, and memorized 
every line of her face.  Her gaze turned my direction, eyes 
locking with mine.  Black, white, exploding color filled my 
vision, engulfing my world view with loveliness.  In the stare 
she said, 'you are cold and alone.  Come let me give you 
comfort.'  In the stare I replied, 'I cannot.  I must not.'
     The non-instant--eternity long, however brief--passed when 
she focused on someone or something behind me, my presence never 
acknowledged.   Embarrassment flooded me that I'd been staring, 
but in that brief fantasy moment when sparks had and hadn't 
passed between us I'd heard the sound of her voice speaking my 
name with tenderness and desire.  I'd known the soft rose petal 
taste of her lips on mine.  I experienced the electric thrill of 
love.
     The moment disappeared, gone cold as grate ashes in the 
morning when I realized she'd not even seen me; that nothing had 
passed between us.  She turned, entering the room.  I turned, 
leaving before I'd even arrived. 
     The moonlight, soft only minutes before, bathed the world in 
stark shades of gray.  It washed what little color the city had 
offer in its bleach.  Every crack and crevice, yawning chasms 
done in miniature, lay in wait for the unwary wherever the eyes 
might linger.  The dirt and grime coating the city, easily 
ignored by day became glaringly obvious in the night.  It cloaked 
the city in winter clothing, preparing it for coming storms.  A 
vain shield against the bitter, cruel cold winds whose touch 
rattles and chills the bones.  
     I walked.  Wandering aimlessly along the 
empty--bustling--streets, I tried to recapture the feelings that 
had so fleetingly passed through me.  Her image, brief that I'd 
seen it,  I called up with ease.  But instead of an alluring 
picture--soft shades done in oil--I received a whitewashed 
canvas--cold and barren.  The sparkles that had so illuminated 
the night remained elusive--yet tantalizingly close.  I rounded a 
corner and found my feet had brought me back full circle, echoing 
the pathways of my thoughts, to stand once again before the door 
I'd seen her in.
     What had I felt?  Could it be fleeting infatuation?  A 
pretty face in the crowd easily replaced by the next one I should 
stare at?  Or maybe it was simple carnal lust, the fourth Deadly 
Sin?  And after having entertained it in my heart, was I now 
consigned to the Second Circle of Hell?  Or perhaps it was truly 
love that had suddenly filled my world.  A thin razor line of 
difference separated the three that had been debated by 
brilliant--lost--poets through the ages, and who was I to second 
guess them?  
     I stared at the door unsure of what to do and confused by my 
feelings.  Should flames that caught so quick in the dry kindling 
of drought be entertained?  Nurtured, would--could?--they bank 
and warm the lost soul?  Or, in a furious flash, would they 
instead destroy everything about them in pain and agony?  
Stranger Love had too long abandoned me, not that she'd ever 
courted me with any passion.  I doubted that I would truly 
recognize her unfamiliar features should she come traipsing 
through my life.  Would she come to sow the seeds of joy, or 
instead try and reap of harvest of pain and despair?  Both were 
in her domain, her choice--arbitrary.
     I gave into the insistent prodding of Mistress Love and 
walked through the door.  I saw her instantly.  She sat alone, 
along the wall, moving gently with the music.  The soft melodies 
played by the big band, Moments In The Moonlight, distant and far 
away, permeated the fabric of the room.  It expanded, moving 
beyond the walls until I felt sure the whole universe must be 
filled with the gentle notes that spoke of love.  The singer made 
love to the microphone lost in his own world.  His voice blending 
without stitch with that of the sax and trombone, transported 
willing patron past the tissue thin barrier of time, past the 
expanse of memories and moments, bringing us all back to 1941.
     I tarried in the shadows, indecision twisting at my stomach.  
Should I approach her.  What would I do, what would I say?  Could 
I say anything, should I force my legs to travel the distance 
between us, or would my tongue tie itself in Gordean knots and 
strangle me?
     The song ended, and I found myself walking toward her.  I 
reached her table as the band started up again. 
     "Would you like to dance?" I asked.
     She looked up and again our eyes met.  Fantasy or reality, I 
thought I caught a glimmer of recognition.  Blood rushed to my 
face--embarrassment returning from my earlier stare.  I lost the 
next words, opening my mouth then closing it again.
     Leave, I told myself.  I knew I should flee while I still 
had the chance--before she had could respond.  If she was kind it 
would be casual words of dismissal that would wound or kill me.  
It not, I would be utterly destroyed.  But, leaving now would 
keep the fantasy intact.  An unrealized dream is better than a 
shattered hope. 
     Before I could mumble an apology, she nodded and smiled.  
Taking my hand she led me to the dance floor.  There we moved in 
a slow waltz to the music.  We held each other loosely and 
through her dress I felt the soft, warm curves (delicate and 
tender) of her body.  Her perfume was of lilacs, her eyes, a soft 
gray-blue. 
     Words caught in my throat.  I wanted to know her name, where 
she was from.  I tried again, but she smiled sadly and shook her 
head, silencing me with that simple gesture.  She was correct; 
words were unnecessary.  For this moment in time, we had each 
other, and nothing else mattered.  
     We danced that dance and into the next without stopping.  
She looked deep into my eyes--deep into my soul.  I met her gaze 
while sweet summer scents surrounded us.  We 
moved--lost,found--letting the music transport us where it 
willed.  
     Without flinching, as I had so many times in the past, I let 
her look deep within me.  Though I'd never had the courage to do 
so before, I too tried to peer through her eyes to her soul, and 
was confused by the images I found there.  There was an echo of 
pain and loneliness.  Overlaid in fresco, the passions of life 
sparked and shone forth brightly.  Confidence had been painted 
over doubt and indecision, but the former bled through in places.  
Seeing what was there, I suddenly wondered at the images I must 
surely be giving.  There was nothing but negativity within my 
soul, and none of the goodness to hide it.  
     Shamed I tried to turn away.  I attempted to stop the dance 
and leave before I made a bigger fool of myself than I already 
had.  My life, compared to hers, must be a mockery of unrealized 
dreams, and shattered hopes.  How I knew this, I don't know, but 
I knew it.  And I knew I had no right being with her.
     She held on tight, not letting me go.   "Dance with me," she 
said softly.  Her voice was just as I imagined it would be.  Soft 
and musical.
     "You should be dancing with another.  I'm not right for 
you."
     "Maybe, but I chose to dance with you.  Do you truly wish to 
stop?" 
     "I...I don't know."
     "Then hush, and dance with me."
     I did, and we continued to move about the floor in silence.  
At times we held each other loosely staring in each other eyes.  
Other times we danced close together, her head on my shoulder, 
moving as one.
     Lost in time, I don't know how long we moved together, but 
it was over far too soon.  The last song ended and she held me 
close.
     "You can make it prim, proper," she murmured in my ear, "or 
passionate."  She pulled away.  "The choice is yours."
     Before I could ask her what she meant, her lips briefly 
brushed mine.  Then she walked away.
     I followed her to the door.  I didn't know what to think or 
say.  She turned just inside and said, "Life is a slow dance."
     She left while I stared in uncomprehending confusion.  She 
spoke in riddles and I didn't know how to respond.  I walked out 
the door, but she was nowhere in sight.
     I started the long walk home.  The night air was chilled and 
moonlight still washed the colors away.  Where had she gone, and 
what had she meant.  I stopped in an all night diner for coffee, 
and tried to sort through my thoughts.  Confusion so fogged my 
brain that I almost failed to see the lady sitting at the far 
edge of the counter.  I shared the diner with her alone.
     I stared at her, while she gazed out the window.  Color 
began to seep back into the world, starting with her.  She 
shifted and i quickly looked away, only to have my gaze wander 
her way again moments later.  
     Should I? I wondered.   Then another thought intruded--Could 
I?
     In my mind I heard a soft musical voice.  'Shape it to your 
will and waltz through life, else die broken by the wall.'
     With those words, the room exploded with warmth and light, 
and I knew that I could.  Taking my cup, I moved to the end of 
the counter.  "May I join you?"
     The lady looked up and into my eyes.  I returned the gaze 
without hesitation or fear.  She stared deeply for moment, then 
smiled.  "It would be a pleasure," she said.
     The mysterious lady with her riddles I never saw again.  
She'd disappeared into the night leaving behind a memory.


                             --END--
