Love Letters #21

We are observing a couple of people through a slightly glazed window. They are dancing figures at first, so small, moving all over the panes. They chase each other here and prance along there. Sometimes they hold hands and others they drift apart, but their limbs always head back towards each other.

The glaze is clearing and the figures are growing larger and larger until we are breaking through the glass and suddenly they are as large as life. He is smiling at her, his pale eyes behind black rimmed glasses and his hair brushed back. His hands are deep in the pockets of his blazer, which he is wearing over a maroon T-shirt and he looks like a filmmaker, but his smile is so real it threatens to crack his face in half. She is beautiful but not in the way beauty is generally described. Her beauty is in the words that tumble from her mouth at top speed and the way that her hands swirl all the air around her.

They are on the train now and his head is in his arms, the golden rays travelling across his arms over and over again, broken by lines of shadow from the window dividers, and her eyes are watching the way the hairs on his arms seem to catch fire in that sunlight. His glasses are loosely held in his half open hand.

They are walking on a red carpet now and she is dressed in a pale pink dress that glitters with each step she takes, and her curly red hair is bunched up at the back of her head and a few strands are dangling by her face, her eyes are sparkling as he signs autographs and poses grinning for cell phone pictures. He leans his head towards hers and murmurs something and her laugh turns heads.

They are in a garden now and there are fairy lights glittering and flashing everywhere, and people milling around and they are standing in front of the doors as he shows her a magic trick with some cards. He deftly shuffles and then pulls one out of his mouth, neatly unfolds it to reveal her signature and her eyes widen, her hands flying to her mouth. She throws her head back and laughs freely, clapping her hands loudly so a group of people begin shuffling closer to see what all the gusto is about and he begins to demonstrate a trick for them all, as she sidles away, glancing back at him as she pushes the door open and enters the house.

Dancing closer, dancing further, darting in and out of the frame, getting smaller in the distance. Sometimes there is only one dancer, arms spread mournfully, fingers fanning the air, and sometimes they both drift away, so far they are tiny black specks in an array of colour. Sometimes they are so close all their pores are on show, a flash of hair here and a green glint in an eye.

Ever dancing in this ever-changing frame we call life.

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