'Silver-Haired Dancers' by Ilze Duarte

 We look on as the silver-haired couple dance in the bright afternoon sun. His hair is short, hers is long, pulled back into a ponytail. His right arm wraps her tight, her left hand cups his neck. Their denim-clad bodies cleave together, obliterating the space between them.  

The silver-haired couple are the only dancers on the dirt floor. They might as well be the only people in the world. There is only the music they hear, the ground that welcomes their steps, the touch of their bodies moving to the Zydeco beat. The band members smile at their abandon, we delight in their oneness. The dancers glide and spin with the ease of lifetime partners. They are not looking in each other’s eyes. They are dancing cheek to cheek.

You take my hand, as you always do. I keep my eyes on the silver-haired dancers.

The band plays the chords that announce the end of the song. He dips her. But the song is not over. The band plays the chords one more time, and he dips her a little lower. The band plays the chords one last dramatic time, and he dips her with extra flair. The dancers’ bodies come apart, and they laugh, and she slaps his chest with a playful flick of her wrist.

We wish the song hadn’t ended. We wish we could have watched the silver-haired couple dance on and on and on, their joy lingering in the air, reaching us, inviting us. I feel your eyes on me, but I don’t need to look at you. I know what you’re thinking. Are we going to be like the silver-haired dancers? Press our bodies together sensuously until we’re seventy-five?

I wish I could promise you that.