Our bodies are pressed together, his fingers curving along the shape of my waist, his hand intertwining with mine. I bring my arm up and let my other hand rest on his upper shoulder while he leads, feet creating a rhythm to the classical tones of jazz on stage, speaking into the ears of young yet matured souls. I follow his movements and attempt to match every motion, my hips swaying along his, giving in to the feeling of nostalgia as we dance across the floor, unbothered by the presence of others. He briefly touches the silk material of my silver dress that hugs my body in ways that it shouldn't, and then I feel his fingertips graze back up my spine, leaving a trail of warmth and heat once his palm presses against my exposed back. I feel the smooth material of his tux as well, admiring the way it suits his body and lean build, as if he's meant to be wearing it.
             It's almost midnight, the clock ticking close to the stroke of twelve, and many begin to gather around the dance floor, some joining in on the fun as heels click against the wooden surface. There are those who are asking for their lovers to dance, men extending a hand out so women can blush and accept the proposal without much of a thought. Others are laughing at the joke a businessman shared, getting champagne glasses refilled by waiters and waitresses who sneak in a taste when picking up not fully emptied glasses on white linen tables, or looking for partners appealing to the eye who are not yet accompanied by another. Everyone is wearing long cocktail dresses and gowns, tuxes and suits, high heels and dress shoes, jewelry and watches of silver and gold, wealth spreading across the venue like an orchestra gathering on a cold, winter night. A chandelier of diamonds and gold hangs above us all, casually swinging and smiling to the jazz band playing as if it too cannot be in more bliss than it is now. There are white marbled stairs coming from the entry way as well, gold railings praising each hand that touches it, and there are people there now, sitting or standing by the podium at the end of the staircase, flirting with a gentleman or a lady they met along the way. I smile at the couple, blushing as I innocently watch this man kiss the back of a woman's hand, and then lead her to the top of the stairs, letting her exit first as she smiles at his chivalry.
             When I look away to focus on this gentleman in front of me, I notice he's been gazing at me this whole time. I smile, looking into his dark hazel eyes, loving the way they look into mine with purity and kindness, a beauty with only depth and serenity. I smooth my fingers in his short hair and touch his cheek, admiring his clean, defined scruff and full lips, the way they part and take a breath when I do so. It reminds me of the time we slow danced in his kitchen, spent lazy nights and heated mornings in his bed, read books with one leg draped over the other or his hand massaging my cold foot, laughed at each other's dumb, blonde jokes and weird, questionable quirks.
             It reminds me of how it used to be, between us; what it was, what we were, what we could have been. And he still looks at me the way he does, wondering how we got to this moment, us finding our movements again, our rhythm, swaying our hips to meet each other's souls, circling along the dance floor to never cease the moment that's soon to pass.
             He watches me, still, with every sigh I make and every breath I take, his fingers coming up to brush away the strands of hair falling to my eyes, tucking them gently behind my ear, wanting me, desiring me, craving me, needing me, loving me…yes, it feels like I'm caught up in this imagined reality that I once created myself as a little girl, a film from another godforsaken director who yearns for romance, a happy ending no one quite cares for, a dream so vivid I blink to see if I'll wake up and continue to live in a nightmare I call true reality. But this isn't a mere creation of my imagination, a dream from another life as a child…because he's in front of me, calling me to fall and let him take me and surrender to a man I never stopped…
             "What are you thinking?" he asks, placing his palm back to my bare skin behind me, letting him lead the next song, the man playing the saxophone introducing the tune with his personal solo. He always asks me this, always wanting to see inside my head.
             "Nothing," I shake my head, not wanting to reveal my thoughts and my own selfish desires that the universe can't seem to agree with.
             When he surprisingly doesn't press any further, I begin to shudder at our closeness, wondering and questioning why his touches and overall presence still affects me. I can still remember what they feel like, still remember what it's like to have his lips on mine and all over my skin, still remember when he made me moan against bedroom walls and car windows. We aren't suppose to be doing this, or maybe that's what I believe…but I have to admit, the difference between right and wrong, good and bad, want and need…is fading, taking a different form instead, combining in what I believe is fate, which is something I didn't think ever existed. So I stay with him, in this moment, dancing across what could have been the aura of our home, our once beloved normal, closing my eyes once I feel his breath on my ear, leaning my head forward.
             He wants to say something, I can feel it, his chest breathing in towards the end of the song, knowing our time is ending and the moment is going to pass. I look at him, waiting to hear those words I know he's about to say, waiting for him to say what I've been thinking…but he looks over my shoulder, circling around in place so I could see his wife smile from across the room, and my husband doing the same. They are both standing next to each other, laughing among the friends surrounding them as they watch us in amusement. Of course, they don't know about us, what we mean to each other, have no idea we once had history and had plans to be married. My husband waves and I softly grin, suddenly feeling Reality stab and twist the sharp knife in my stomach without hesitation, blood boiling with intention as it spills from the organ and rips open a wound when the piano plays its last note. I feel liquid leave my bones and drench my skin, pain surging from my belly to the core of my limbs.
             He then let's go of me, and we slowly clap with the crowd who applause the jazz band in delight, looking painfully into each other's eyes, knowing we have to depart. I wonder if he's going to speak, if he's going to release a word or two from his lips I can't help but still desire.
             But he only smiles and leans in to softly and discreetly kiss my cheek, as if that's the only thing he can do at this moment in time. I'm about to speak, tell him to come with me, to talk, to get away from here, but he leaves before I can whisper a vowel.Â
        I watch him go to his wife, briefly saying his goodbyes to my husband before walking up the stairs. He looks back at me with sad eyes, attempting to keep it together with his wife beside him. When she's distracted by another acquaintance she encounters, he mouths something to me that only I can understand. Shocked, I attempt not to react, do not give anyone the satisfaction of what's spoken between us. So I nod instead, giving him a smile before proceeding to walk towards my husband who I care for, but unfortunately do not love.
             "You ready?" my husband asks, taking my arm in his.
             I nod, letting my husband lead me towards our friends as I briefly look back at the marbled stairs where the gentelman was, knowing we are going to meet each other again...that this time, it would just be us.Â