Staring Into Space

An old memory. The frame of his view was just a haze, a blur. The focus was him. And there was her, of course. Always. Even when it wasn't him. But mostly, it was them. They were together, at the center of it all. It wasn't in black and white or tinted in brown sepia like traditional flash-backs were expected to be.

Everything was still in colour, just as fresh as if that day was today, right now. Together, they danced. Though it was more than just dancing. Or less, depending on how you saw it. They moved together, but not too much. It was not any physical mastery over any dance-form that they showed. They moved together, just not too much.

The music was very soft, very slow. It didn't try to sweep you away to any foreign land. It did not tryto elevate you to a higher consciousness. It had no crescendo, and no climax. It just played. One note after another, each one a soothing and understanding partner to the one before it, and to the note after. It wasn't a carnival or a grand ball. It was just an evening, alone. The music chose to merely help things as they were. It pushed, it prodded. It tugged at their hearts, pulling strings and slowing the beat, till all of it went in rhythm - the music and the two hearts moving to it.

Their hearts beat together with the notes struck on the old gramophone, and they moved together. Together they took the same steps. His hands were on her waist lightly, careful to not hold too hard, but deeply aware of every inch of skin he felt with the tips of his fingers. Her hands were on his shoulders, resting weightlessly. They'd never danced before, he knew. But...It was either the song that told them, through some unknown connection, or they told each other, without words and without signal. Through an unknown, unspoken connection. They danced together as if the summation of their whole lives had led up to this night. Every single moment of it had been a prologue. It was here that the story, the purpose, began. And here it could very happily end. He looked at himself in the memory. He saw himself look at her, into her eyes.

He knew he wouldn't need words here today. He knew he did not need to choose the words or pick the phrases. He did not need to banter. He did not need to even bare his soul. Nothing was needed today.

They moved in slowly and kissed. The lights faded and the memory closed. And the old man woke up again. In the habit of several years, he chided himself softly for going back to it all. Like everytime. Hadn't it been long enough now? It had, it had.

He did not even have a photograph. He had nothing. Sometimes, he wondered how real it had been. If at all. Did it really happen that way? How could it have been all that, and now all this? How?