LITMIR.BIZ

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them to head for home. Amos lets out a meow before plodding off to his cat bed in the corner of the room.

      I stay put.

      They’re having dinner tonight in the dining room.

      It seems they only have dinner there once in a while. They have a tiny table in their kitchen, too.

      She’s gone above and beyond today, though. There are beautiful candles adding a soft glow to the room. With the encroaching darkness, it’s getting even easier to see the scene. She still hasn’t put blinds or curtains up. I hope she keeps it that way. The glass is a little bit dingier now, time passing and caking a thin veil of dirt and dust on the pane. Still, my view is almost unobstructed. Maybe she’ll wash the windows soon and my view will be improved.

      She’s wearing royal blue tonight, a satiny finish on the top of her dress gleaming beautifully in the eerie glow of the candlelight. The light dances off her face, her hair swept upward in an elegant style. Her dark lipstick painted on her perfectly shaped lips contrasts with her pale skin in a way that is arrestingly gorgeous. I can’t stop watching her as she carefully places items on the table, a graceful domestic dance.

      Next, she puts a casserole in the centre of the table, fidgeting with her hair after she does. It seems like she has a bunch of different dishes on the table. I wonder what she’s made and if she’s a good cook. She disappears for a moment, walking back with a basket between her two hands, golden bread rolls stacked up towards her chin. I wonder if she made them from scratch. They’re the best, after all. They’re so worth the work, even if they are tedious. My mouth waters at the thought of the homemade rolls I always made, the ones that practically melted in my mouth.

      Eventually, he comes in, and she gives him a peck on the cheek. He loosens the black tie around his neck, the white collar on his shirt standing at attention. They sit across from each other, the long table in between them, each at the head seats so they are sideways to me. They each hold up a glass of champagne or wine or some other drink and toast. The candlelight dances between them, the glow of the room warm yet oppressive at the same time.

      I wonder what their toast is. I hope it’s something sweet. She should say something like, ‘To an amazing night with a man who makes every day a special occasion.’

      Okay, so that’s a little cheesy, I know. But I think she should say something to make him know he’s special, that every single day with him is special.

      It’s not my toast to give though, so I just sit, studying them, not knowing what she decides on. I’m sure it’s lovely. I’m sure it will do.

      There is a shuffling of dishes as they heap their plates, passing around the casserole and laughing. She has a wide smile, and her head flies back at several moments in laughter. He’s a good storyteller; I can tell. He talks with his hands, just like her. Good storytellers, I think, should talk with their hands.

      Plus, he makes eye contact with her when he’s telling a story. I always liked that. You need to look into someone’s eyes to really speak to them. It’s a skill so many ignore.

      I watch the scene, a peaceful scene, as the moon rises over their house. They take their time, languishing over dinner. I’m glad to see they’re appreciating the meal, that they’re taking a moment to just slow down. They’re always rushing about, to and fro. I like that they’re focusing on each other, even if just for tonight.

      After a while, he gets up from the table, putting his napkin down. He crosses the distance between them casually, in a couple of strides. Standing before her, he offers her his hand, and I smile at the gesture. I love an impromptu dance. More than that, I love a man who isn’t afraid to dance without a reason, to dance around the dining room table on a Wednesday evening.

      She shakes her head as if she’s embarrassed, looking down at the plate in front of her.

      I will her to change her mind. Don’t say no. Please don’t say no. You’ll regret it someday if you do. Someday, you’ll wish you had danced with him every chance you got. Someday, you’ll give anything to feel his hands on your waist, to have him twirling you around that table in a fit of laughter.

      And for a moment, I think I’m losing my mind because, as if she’s heard my whispered prayer, she looks up from the table, turns her head and stares directly at me. I feel our eyes lock, my stomach flipping at the odd sensation pulsing through me as she stares. It’s like her eyes pierce through me, body and soul. I’m so uncomfortable, yet I can’t look away. After a long moment of her staring, no smile, her face steadfast, she glances back to the scene playing out.

      With some coaxing, she eventually nods and takes his hand. She doesn’t say ‘no’ today. I exhale the breath I didn’t realise I was holding, shaking my head.

      Did I imagine it? Certainly, she hadn’t been looking at me, had she?

      I brush off the chill in my veins, focusing instead on the beautiful scene unfolding before me now. They lean in to each other, dancing by the candlelit table like two lovers who just uncovered the truth between them, his hand finding the waist of her satiny blue dress, her head resting on his shoulder.

      I close my eyes, partially because I feel like this intimate moment should be between the two of them only, and partially because I’m drifting back to one of the many dances by the dining room table I had.

      Our song plays in my head, that jazzy, big band song. He sings it to me in my ear, his hot breath sending chills down my spine.

      * * *

      ‘This is crazy,’ I said, giggling wildly.

       ‘This is perfect,’ he said.

       ‘I have dishes to do,’ I argued.

       ‘They can wait.’ He kissed my cheek, then my forehead and finally my lips. We kissed for a long time, the magic of the first wedded year dancing in our hearts.

       The dishes didn’t get done that night, but it was okay. Instead of chores or responsibilities, we spent the night revelling in the beauty of our love, in our connection and in each other.

      Then, our early dance morphs into another scene, a scene from later in our marriage.

       ‘Dance with me,’ he said, holding out his hand. He started humming the familiar song.

       ‘I can’t,’ I replied, icily, averting my gaze to the ground. Tears formed, burning the inner corners of my mascara-laden eyes.

       ‘Please, honey. Don’t do this. I love you. I know things are tough right now.’

       ‘Tough? You have no idea what tough is. There you are, pretending things are great, but in the meantime, I’m devastated. How can you even suggest we dance, like nothing’s happened? Like nothing’s changed?’

       ‘But, baby, it hasn’t. It doesn’t have to. Just dance with me. I love you. I’ve always loved you and only you.’

       I looked up to see his pleading eyes this time. They sobered me, but the anger wouldn’t let go. I knew it was misplaced. I knew none of it was really his fault, and maybe a piece of me knew I was being slightly insane. He loved me; I knew this.

       But it wasn’t enough. He just wasn’t enough then.

       The hurt and denial intensified. It whirred within me. I tossed my linen napkin on the table, kicked the leg of the wooden heirloom and stormed to the kitchen.

       ‘I need to finish the dishes,’ I bellowed. And with that, the dance never happened, the song left unsung as the stark silence filled the growing void between us.

      * * *

      I open my eyes, tears flowing again. They’re still dancing, the moment not lost.

      ‘Dance with him always. Every time. Don’t let anything stop you,’ I whisper into the

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