THE DANCE BY NARIMAN

 

I glanced at him through lowered lids trying to avoid the blinding headlamps of oncoming cars. The rays of the dusky lights moved swiftly over him bringing his lips, his nose then his eyes into view. His face was rigid, his focus fierce while navigating his way through the thick fog that covered the road in danger.

We pulled up to the traffic light and he leaned over, his seatbelt tightening against his thickened frame.
"Remember this?" he said as he kissed me softly, this gesture now so out of character for him.
The corners of my mouth curled ever so slightly in remembrance of a time when we used to pray for the traffic lights to flash red for this very reason: The hungry kisses, the rough hands, the roaring with laughter…

So often these days we fume when we are stopped by the red light, cursing the delay, eager to get going, to be on time, to get on with it. Revving in our haste.
"I remember!" 

What a simple thing, this stopping at the robot, this celebration of companionship, this playing and lightness of being.

30 years is a lifetime and the forever-after kinda love has many nuances. It is vast and ever-changing, challenging the status quo, demanding shifts and pivots, leaning in and turning away, it is all a part of its epic span. How can such a love be staid and fixed?
We share a long history filled with so many memories? Memories of the little things, simple things that get lost in the craziness of raising kids, buying a house, going to work to afford said house & cars & education & family vacations & stuff & rainy days...
Memories lost.
Moments forgotten.
Seemingly small experiences carelessly discarded, things like dancing so close that your heartbeats become in sync, like kisses at the robots for no reason, like the twinkle in his eye when he sees you approaching... small things brushed aside for duties and responsibilities. 

It becomes easy to forget that he is your home; that you found your sanctuary underneath his clothes, in that nook in his arms, clinging to him like a barnacle in the dead of night, security buried deep in brown eyes.

And all it takes to remind you, is a dance.
A dance that loosened the cobwebs and brings the simple things flooding back to you on a hot summer’s night on the lighter side of midnight in the twilight of your life.

I sit up straight in the middle of the bed in the middle of the night on days of white, the glow of the full moon too enticing to be disregarded. My hair is unkept, my skin flushed, and the white cotton negligee balloons out from under me where I sit cross-legged on the white Egyptian cotton bedding patterned with lavender flowers and green leaves embroidered in silk thread. The aroma of peppermint tea lures me in, and I take a sip, the warm bitterness rolling around my lustful tongue. The full moon hangs pregnant in midnight skies, igniting my senses and awakening something primal deep inside. I allow it to sit there, way down deep, allowing it to simmer and stew, unlocking feeling and thoughts long quelled in the busyness of everyday life.

 I had lit a single candle, placed it strategically in the corner furthest from me letting it cast its feeble, flickering light into the giant empty bedroom. He is away from me, his mind writing code, lines of letters and numbers keeping him from me.

 It feels good letting them loose, the familiar feelings now tugging at old bones.

I invite them to the surface.

My body remembers, and moves, shivering at first despite the heat,

Then arms outstretched, my body making stars as the moonlight streams into the room.

I stand on uncertain feet, and inch closer to the rays of light.

On tiptoes I move, remembering that grace once resided in these stiff limbs. I'm whirling in sheer abandon losing my grip on reality like dancing dervishes meditating on love. And love and lust are stirring within me, love of him and a lust for life long since entertained. 

When we are green it is so easy losing oneself in another, but when age has set in, the familiarity creates distance and danger sets in.

The danger of losing someone so beloved.

The danger of letting go.

Or the fear of being the one left behind.

I continue twirling on bare feet till I reach the room at the end of the corridor. Light from the computer screen is flittering across his face.

“Do you remember?” I whisper softly, “that we once danced on rooftops in Singapore, and kissed at robots…”

“Huh?” he responds, nor sure what I’m on about.

“Robots and wet kisses and racing home…”

I can see the smile. 

And the knowing descending.

Our history runs deep.

“Dance with me…”

I smile, he smiles, and we begin to sway while the moon looks on paying homage to the dance.