Atmospherics misaligned, English invention, patent worldwide.
half-chances in a jar
not knowing who you are?
Took a moment of her beauty … committed sin his memory.
No photograph, as if … no matter.
Took his day … declined his years
“He wasn’t there, at least not a moment ago?” she half thought, half spoke.
“Who?” little sister said, answering her own question looking from the ‘pay here’ queue to see what kind of man had got big sister’s attention.
He was there alright, in every sense, lean, six foot something, curly close cut hair, caressing silk, eyes dancing over candy stripes, somehow not quite him. Little sister does a double take, big sister now walking over to him.
His fingers caress each tie in turn. “A female perspective?” she enquires.
“Yours always” his reply.
She takes a subtle blue design – almost on tiptoes, leans in to place around his neck.
Foot to foot his balance shifts, her coat unbuttoned, her body open. Both sway, the gap between them now as nothing, little sister’s eyes are popping.
The music, no one remembered what or if any, only movement, theirs, timeless, of another world. Classic ballroom made sensual, of them, strictly personal. This world stood still, time gave time for free.
At arm’s length, their tie passed, her hands to his, he bows, escorts her to the line where all completely mesmerised.
Little sister’s mouth wide open, seeing yet not believing, big sister dancing in that way, with him.
“Who is he” she gasps at last …
“No idea” big sister smiles, “He’s here this time every year, ”they turn around, blue tie as his eyes nowhere to be seen, present given, and received.
He texted, she replied … not otherwise.
His still … one take of you.