The Waltz

With a mien fit for an empress, she walks forth,
acknowledging and ignoring the other revelers in equal measure. 
The crowd parts.

A thousand hostile eyes claw at the hem of her ombré dress,
even as they pretend to look right through her.
This silence is their punishment for her daring to aspire,
for dreaming much higher than her station warranted. 

She is iridescent, the soft gold-pink of her bodice giving way
to the richer hue of late blooming roses,
pale skin, green eyes and auburn hair only furthering the impression
of a delectable treat.  What a veritable feast for the eyes! 

The men (and not a few of the women)
stare at her with their bodies if not with their eyes,
drawn despite their best intentions.  Though her chin is held high,
ears and neck dripping with finery, there is nothing
that can disguise the irrepressible aura of mischief that surrounds her. 

In the treasured days of long ago,
beauty such as hers would have toppled kingdoms. 

‘She has always been too proud for her own good,’
a woman whispers loudly.  ‘Imagine the nerve, to show up here. 
People like her need to learn their place.’ 

A brief stutter step is the only indication she has heard. 
At the dais she stops, bowing her head in supplication. 
Clad in black from head to toe,
with only a diamond stick pin to relieve the darkness,
he peels himself away
from the family that had huddled protectively around him. 

‘You came back,’ he says, equal parts perturbed and relieved. 
‘If you will have me,’ she answers, the quiver in her voice betraying her anxiety. 

Silence, thick and enveloping, falls upon the room. 
Even the musicians have stopped their playing.  At long last he moves,
descending the three steps. 

‘Is she weeping?’ someone asks.  She is; the thick tears ruin her makeup
but make her no less beautiful. 

‘Will you have me?’ 
And this dark and somber man,
who had not smiled since the day she left, breaks into laughter
and pulls her into a passionate embrace. 

‘Maestro, play something slow.  I would like to waltz with my wife.’ 
The music resumes but they stand there motionless,
wrapped so tightly together only
the color of their clothing indicating where one ended and the other began. 

‘Forgive me,’ she pleads. 
‘Love me,’ he replies. 

With another soul-stirring laugh the years of heartache drop from him,
discarded like a winter cloak.  He is handsome again, rather than grim,
a dark prince to her fairy princess.

The floor clears and they waltz their way back to each other.