The Dance

Throughout the long, sweat-filled, military day in which I find myself living, I can always take comfort in the knowledge that I will soon be able to sleep, although it is not the sleep itself for which I wait. With sleep come the dreams. Flashes of red, blurred across the stage, in sharp contrast to the black background and dark, slinky outfit which mercilessly hugs the curves of your slim figure. For what seems like hours all I see is the red, moving frantically up and down, tossed from side to side, and occasionally even rolled when you move your head just right, bright red hair flowing behind, desperately trying to keep up with your energetic dancing. Finally, the music pauses, and no longer am I in the audience, but suddenly a performer, practiced and agile, though never a match to your speed and skill. In an instant the music is playing again, fast-paced and upbeat, and our feet respond in accordance to the beat, salsa-like in nature, sensual and quick. Eventually, the unseen band decides to slow the rhythm and we begin a waltz, my hand on the small of your back, your head on my shoulder, our strides long and slow, absorbing the atmosphere, knowing that I will forever remember this moment. On and on we dance, time standing still as though it, too, wants this dance, this night, to last eternally. But all things must come to an end, and I awaken, going through the motions of a typical workday, thinking only of the sleep to come, of the dreams that accompany it. Of you.