La Vie en Rose
You are so beautifully awkward.
That was the last thing he said on the night of the dance.
That’s where we met; at that dance just like in “Tuesdays with Morrie”. Only instead of Wednesday, it was held every Thursday. Somehow, an old man and his wife started playing really old songs and a few new ones at the park while most people who came to dance closed their eyes to feel the cold breeze kiss their cheeks. They swayed their arms freely as if they were flying. It was a lovely sight.
We held hands the first night. We seldom spoke a word; never asked for each other’s names. We just held hands and, with our eyes closed, danced under the moonlit park with a 1970s song on a boring Thursday night. It lasted for two months.
On the first Thursday of the third month, as we held hands and danced, he said—as he looked straight into my eyes with a smile up on his face—“Hey, you are so beautifully awkward. And in a very, very nice way.” Then it was all over. I knew it was. As Edith Piaf ended La Vie en Rose, our hands slipped away and off we went our separate ways. We did not say goodbye. We did not know each other, let alone our names. We never looked back.
