sway

they croon in the background, the legendary double team of vocal jazz, the trumpeter and the woman with the voice like honey. their voices underpinning the scene. i'm wearing his t-shirt; he's just taken off his reading glasses. two packs of cigarettes on the windowsill, a pair of stilettos tossed carelessly into a corner.

it's hot outside; it's hot in here, but the heat indoors is borne of something entirely separate from what is found outside, it is the warmth of laughter and soft skin and desire. comfort. i reach for his hand and he pulls me close, one hand on the small of my back and the other clasping mine. my cheek touching his, voices low.

the dance takes place on two levels: our feet, bare and gingerly navigating the sparse tangle of electrical cords littering the floor. we miss once or twice and come close to losing our footing, giggling all the way. our hands, entwined in ever changing configurations, a languid metamorphosis, constantly in motion. he holds me to his body not tightly but resolutely.

our faces are touching and i can almost hear his breath above the soft music. a few moments pass and i'm only dimly aware of us in context, of where we are; the only thing that registers is the feel of his skin and his hands and how happy i am to be here, now, and how long it's been since i've felt like this.