He stands and holds out his hand to me. "They're playing our song," he says.
I reach out and his fingers close around mine, and he pulls me close as the melody fills the room. I can feel the lace bodice against my skin, the folds of white silk of the skirt moving with me to this song, his smile as he looks at me, proud and so full of love. And then the sun on my back and the sand between my toes, the strains of someone else's boom box, our orchestra. And singing along with the radio in the car, out of tune, but we don't care, two high-pitched voices joining us, so young, but already they know all the words.
We are still dancing when the music starts to fade and a voice says something about dog food. We look at each other and laugh as we sit back on the sofa in our over-washed robes, his fingers still laced through mine. "Dog food," he murmurs, shaking his head. "We must be getting old." And like me he remembers the day a girl waiting in the queue in HMV heard that song and started to dance, the day a boy she didn't know began to dance with her and never stopped...
Media: Story printed on the surface using a laser jet printer; illustration drawn by hand in ink and graphite pencil
Surface: Accademia Fabriano per Artisti acid-free paper (200gsm)
Size: A4 (8.27"x 11.69"; 21cm x 29.7cm)
Copyright © 2009-2022 Diana Naomi April Shaul and Jacquie Samantha Shaul. All rights reserved.