Author's Note: This is an old story -- a dream I wrote down, really -- but I figured I'd type it up just so I can attempt to alleviate my writers' block ... May 1998, sent October 1998 all comments, questions, etc. sent to email@example.com -- thanks.
I want to dance with you. So we dance in the empty abandoned warehouse ballroom of my mind, which has been outfitted with mirrors on its short walls. Windows line the tall half of the long wall -- I don't know what's opposite that. The walls are brick, red brick, and buildings can be seen outside the windows. The floor is hardwood; the ceiling is high and unfinished. And you're just looking at me -- you're in your trademark clothes so dark, but your eyes seem to smile tenderly. I'm nervous -- there's something about you that excites and frightens me all at once. And no matter what you say I think you're beautiful.
There ought to be music playing, but I can't find the right CD so there isn't any. You mention that you might have some so I wait -- I sit on the floor and watch as you go to the sound system. I love the way your hair falls, the way your jacket sits on your shoulders -- that much I know is there.
You come back almost jogging; you're happy and now most certainly smiling as best you can, considering.
The music -- it's anything from "Pretty Good Year" to "I've Had the Time of My Life" but now -- now it's quickly becoming "Truly Madly Deeply" -- a good choice.
Our fingers interlock; your hands are warm and callused and I know the roughness of your fingers come from hours spent against guitar strings. Your other hand is at my waist but it's almost like you're afraid to touch me -- I understand it's hard for you but don't refrain from reaching my spare hand up around your neck. This is how to dance, right? My stray thought nearly embarrasses me and would have caused me to blush if it had been anyone else but you -- but if it had, he wouldn't have heard it in the first place. And I don't even know if you're reading me now -- but I don't care.
We've stopped moving around the room; we've been relegated to one corner even though we're quite alone. Somehow I'm drawn closer to you -- somehow my arms are both around your neck and I can feel the energy pulsating within you, that bright fire that's replaced a heartbeat. You're warm to the touch, and dry, and almost solid -- very nearly solid -- it's like something's just a little off-color with consistency -- but you smell wonderful.
I wonder what you're thinking. I pull away -- the music's still going but I don't care -- and there is a question and a pain in you: a wounded curiosity.
I want to explain so much to you but I'm afraid I don't know the answers myself.
As my fingers shakily trace the black collar of your leather jacket, you stand stone still, plaintive and weary -- too weary for your years. So much has happened to you.
And I know it isn't possible, but at this moment I would like very much to kiss you.
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