With my chin on your shoulder, I murmured into your ear, “How many bodies have you loved?”
Maybe plenty of young girls have asked you that question, and perhaps plenty of young girls don’t understand what you mean. But sometimes relationships just oscillate from one extreme end to the other, without any intermission in the middle. It just happens. And the ghosts of all that we’ve attempted to love under the sheets just stays and sticks to our skin and we just can’t shake it off.
“Just one. Just my own.”
That morning I put on Astor Piazzolla to see if you recognised the tune and you did because you pulled me up from the couch. Between smoking and drinking, we were getting bored, and you said that it was a travesty that people didn’t attempt to dance more often in life. I only obliged because by then half a bottle of wine had gone into my veins.
“Do you like that movie?”
“I hate it.”
“What a coincidence. So do I.”
For a dance to work, two people must be in tandem. But that night, you kept stepping on my feet, and I kept tripping over yours, because I had been too slow to keep up. But the closer you hold someone, the likelier they are going to emulate your footsteps. The closer you hold someone, the likelier they are going to slow down. “We are a mess, look at this,” I said laughing. “Two of us know nothing about keeping time or the footsteps.”
“If you’re okay with it, it doesn’t matter. It’s a mess, but it’s a magnificent mess.”
I smiled. You can’t dance like shit with each other for eternity, but for now we are good.