Slow Dance

The clock on the wall of that old bar
Showed it was nearly 1 a.m.
But they didn’t notice…
Or care.

He… single, hurting man.
Emptiness in his heart,
Gaping… unfilled.

She… single, hurting woman.
Divorced from her past,
But married now to new loneliness.

Bartender washing glasses paid
No mind to them as they pushed
Chairs and tables apart…

Making space,
An impromptu dance floor,
Room for their bodies to

The jukebox gave up a classic
Rhythm and blues tune,
Under beat, steady,
And smooth…

If music could be their healer tonight,
Then vintage Memphis Soul was their balm.

As the beat built,
Neither he,
Nor she,
Had to think about what
Next to do.

They slid together,
Arms perfectly linking each
To a new place.

Hips now…
Pressed together,
Locked in their
Own rhythm,
And embrace.

As they slowly moved
Around this new life,
Their space,
Their time,
She let her head fall back,
Away from his chest.

Her long, thick waves of
Mahogany hair fell away as well,
In a statement of its own

Her hands holding on to his shoulders,
She let her mane sway,
As her hips swayed,
With his.

Her back arching away from him,
Just enough to entice…
And as if required.

Her throat,
Now fully exposed,
Offered itself…

To his wanting eyes.

As their bodies continued to
Foretell what each knew,
Moving toward a certain future,
She brought her head back up…

And looked into his eyes…

Despite the cool of fall’s onset
The smoky sweetness of the
Whiskey each tasted on the
Tongue of the other,
Offered an alternative warmth.

Hips speaking to one another,
Chests pressed tightly,
They found themselves
Now lost,
In a newness,
A new healing.

The clock continued to tick
Toward closing time,
But they were marking
Their own time.

This dance, slow
Perfectly passionate,
Would end on their schedule.


Release, and acceptance,
And fullness…

In this.

The last slow dance.


© 2017 W. C. Stacia, Jr.


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