He came again, to haunt me in my dreams. But this time, he assured me that he had finally gathered strength to complete the letter he wanted to address to me, after months of contemplating.
His face was unforgettable. His eyes twinkled, his lips were firm under his neat moustache that was long enough to cover his dimpled chin and a smirk that was a sweet companion for years. He was dressed sharp, black blazer with tiny silver and dusty pink buttons that seemed hand woven and the edge gave a very old yet familiar feel to it, a very dashing wine polyester necktie and a black trouser that covered his ankles. Many were aware of his cold devious tactics that were beautifully concealed by his appearance.
He had visited me a few times before and the last time he promised me, one last dance. I was entrapped by his charisma and the swiftness with which he carried himself. I caught myself blushing and a rush of oxytocin was felt in my veins. My fingers slowly melted into his hands, like paints that merged perfectly. I could sense his wood fragrance with an earthy sweet undertone and a breathe full of cigarettes that surprisingly blended marvelously.
We moved slowly, completely devoted to the act. Time seemed to have paused and what seemed to have lasted for a few minutes went on forever. My eyes caught the glimpse of our bodies swaying effortlessly in the mirror across the hall and for a second, I imagined how dazzling a couple we would be, quite the talk of the town one could say. My thoughts were disturbed when he softly brushed his long fingers across my hair, down my spine and slowly whispered in my ears, ‘My dear, we are slow dancing in a burning room. Can’t you see what I have done to you?’