Of Hands and Hearts

A and I had gone dancing; finally surrendering to the pull of the music, and with some concerted effort, allowed myself to be led.

I had come to adore the subtle romance of the bachata. For the last dance A dipped me gracefully and whirled me right back up with impeccable finesse. He was one of the best dancers, if not the best dancer there.

I was happy to be there and be privy to this part of his inner world.

We met up with the guys afterwards for tea and shisha, as we are accustomed to. It was an unusually cold night for the Sandbox at the cusp of spring, and so I warmed my hands by the fire.

“Your hands are the closest I’ve ever been to your heart.” said A sincerely.

From his words, to the fire, to my hands, and then to my heart, I was warmed.

“You are in my heart A.” I replied tenderly.

And it was true. Maybe not in the way that he expects, but he was in my heart.

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