She says she's never danced by herself.
I can't feign surprise.
I think back to our last date,
and see her face in my mind:
The darts around the room.
The delayed, half-panicked smile.
She relaxes some when I take her hand.
How she wishes I could whisk her away then,
take her to a place where no one is staring,
and we'll dance and dance the night away like some kind of dream sequence playing behind the lyrics of her favorite karaoke song.
(Or maybe I'm just projecting.)
She says she likes it when I drink.
She says her father used to drink.
I can't help but think there may be some issues unresolved.
Not enough to stop me from putting my arms around her
as we watch the paramedics load the guy with the ****** leg onto a stretcher and whisk him away.
Romance gets weirder the older you get.