A Midsummer’s Night Dance

It was in midsummer night of 2010. We were saying our goodbye for the day; I walked him to his car and gave him a quick goodnight kiss. He suddenly pulled my hand as I rushed back into the gate.

“Stay with me a little longer,” he held me into his arms and he started to sway.

“What are you doing?” I looked at him in disapproval.

“Dance with me.”

“Here?”

He gave me that mischievous smirk he always had when he’s up to something. It struck me as surprise at first, he wasn’t a romantic and I knew he never fancied to watch romantic movies, so I presumed his intention was genuine.

“Oh come on, one dance.”

I gave in, I put my right hand in his left hand and we began to dance, slowly moved our feet to the imaginary music.

It was particularly a sultry midsummer night; my skin was sticky for been outside all day since early morning. And there we were on the sidewalk, slow dancing under the gleam of the streetlight. The air was so quiet, we could feel no wind. The trees weren’t moving a branch and we could hear cars engine from a distance.

I stepped back, held our arms up in the air and gave a little twirl. I embraced him back and we laughed.

He leaned down and looked me in the eyes. Then he moved his eyes, slowly, to my nose, my lips, and my cheeks then moved back into my eyes; he drank me with his gaze before landed a brief kiss on my lips. There was something about the way he looked at me that night, as if he was afraid of forgetting my face and wanted to take a mental picture of it.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you.”

And we kissed once more.