The music sheets fluttered about the hard wood floor as she danced on them with her shiny tap shoes, her giggles filling the room like bubbles, distorting reality with pastel reflections of the room and her face.The soft curve of her dimpled cheek and pure pink of her sweet mouth. Her feet never stopping, just tap-tapping along the sheets, making music on the music.
She didn’t need music to dance. The song was inside. I sat on the floor, my legs crossed, my head weary with no sleep, and watched her dancing, watched the kissable rolls around her thighs. It was after midnight,but I had waken her from her sleep, watched the butterfly veins of her eyelids flutter awake. I’d taken her from the warmth of her bed, her cheeks had been flushed with heat and streaked with strands of hair that stuck to them with sweat.
“I’m home, baby,” I said. “Wakeup and dance with me.”
These are the times I think of – these late nights when she was still all mine. When the sharp metal of her shoes would tear up the paper strewn about the room, when we were pleased to be together and she wanted my eyes glued to her every move until the night caught up with us again. Before she walked out on the music.
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Serena Cavanaugh was born and raised in the SF Bay Area where she lives with her two kids and their poodle. A graduate of Santa Clara University, she enjoys reading, writing, cooking… and of course eating. www.serenajcavanaugh.com
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