The kitchen was dark, save for the fluorescent bulb, flickering above the sink.
I don’t know why we were even in the kitchen, and I couldn’t tell you if there was any music playing.
I can’t dance.
I’ve never been any good at any variation of it. My sister tried to teach me, during my awkward junior high years, and that was enough to know I was born to be a wallflower.
But we danced, regardless.
Closer than cheek-to-cheek, and slower than a grind.
Her warm breath hit my ear, my neck. I could do nothing but close my eyes and breathe her in.
I had never been more in love, nor as afraid in all my life.
And I sure as hell wasn’t ready for the song to end, whether it was ever playing or not.