Bright lights. A ballroom full of people. Men in their white, crisp, collared shirts with stiff bow ties and tail coats. Women in their evening gowns, long and flowing. Elegance all around.
And you. Dressed in somber gray.
Life happened all around you, and you sat there unaware, uninterested.
You glanced at me as if to say you knew I was watching; I smiled and asked you for a dance.
You paused for a moment and looked at my face; your honey-gold eyes had a tinge of surprise in them.
And then the waltz began, long, smooth and flowing movements. We floated around on the floor. Perfect strangers in perfect harmony. Not a single word was spoken that evening between you and me; we danced away as Frédéric Chopin’s compositions kept the night young.
Every man has his perfection, and in those moments, you were mine, my silent, somber perfection.
Like all good things, it didn’t last for long. You were gone as the night faded away.
Only, I didn’t find any glass slippers behind you.
And here I sit in the gray, somber evening of December, with memories of a nameless you, and the last waltz I ever had.
Every man has his perfection, but ah well, times change.
