I reach out a hand. “Dance with me.”
She laughs, already standing. “You want to dance now?”
“I want to dance withyounow.”
She easily steps into my arms. Her hands slip around my neck, mine settle at her waist.
We move slowly—barefoot on eighteenth-century hardwood, with Paris glittering through the windows behind her.
She doesn’t lead. I don’t, either.
We move together.
“You’re not a bad dancer,” she teases when we fumble a little.
“I used to be better.”
“At dancing?”
My heart is in my throat. “At pretending I didn’t care.”
She goes quiet, and for a second I wonder if I’ve said too much. Then she pulls me closer, rests her cheek against my shoulder.
The song changes.
La Bohème.
We keep swaying.
I close my eyes. Breathe her in. This woman, who has no idea what she’s done to me.
She looks up at me suddenly, her eyes wide, searching. “You okay?”
“I want to remember this. Exactly like this.”
“Then let’s not stop.”
We dance through two more songs, barely speaking, barely breathing.
Music, movement, her body against mine, and the weight of knowing I’ll carry this night with me for a long, long time—long after she’s gone.
Later, in bed after we make love slowly, softly, gently, I trace the length of her arm. The light from the city glows along her skin like water.
She doesn’t speak for a long time. Neither do I.
Then I ask, “What are you thinking?”
She hesitates and then slowly says, “That I’m lucky.”
I exhale.
It’s a lie.
It has to be.
“Are you?”
“Yes. People live their whole lives without feeling…like…this. We’re lucky to feel this way, Gustave.”
