We’ve reached the dance floor and we politely weave toward Diana. Her face beams, sunflower-like, when she sees us.
There is a collection of tantigs and uncles and cousins and family friends, some close and others vaguely familiar to me, and we are all surrounding Diana and Remi in one radiating circle, dancing to the bass thump of the music.
I’m not wound up tight about it. Not walking myself off the ledge of anxiety about people seeing Erebuni and me together. Instead, I want to grab hold of our group’s collective energy, sink my fingers into it, swing from its rafters, celebrate how lucky I am.
In this case, that’s doing an exemplary rendition of “YMCA.” Erebuni gave an elegant shrug and launched right into it beside me.
The unmistakable synthesizer version of “Lady in Red” begins, among whoops of recognition from the guests. It isn’t a Californian Armenian wedding unless “Lady in Red” plays. Ascouples begin to find each other, Erebuni makes like she’s about to move away from the floor. She leans in close. “We can sit this out if you want. I want you to feel comfortable.”
When she pulls away, her face is all placation. She means it, she wouldn’t be offended. I hold her petal-soft hand. “Thank you, but I feel great. About you, us, all of it.”
There’s a moment of surprise in her posture, a tiny jolt, but then it softens, and the beginnings of a smile appear. “Come,” I say, and usher her back toward the center of the dance floor. We put our arms around each other, bodies press tight. I hope I’ll always feel this, the thrill that slaloms through my veins every time we’re close.
She’s glossy from dancing, and I swear her wide eyes are brighter. Under the press of her sheer sleeves, I feel her warm skin. I lean my head toward her, tilt it up, and kiss her. And this time, it’s intentional, it’s open, and it contains all the wild happiness that can come only with freedom.
I’m at my cousin’s wedding, in Erebuni’s arms, which is right where I want to be.
