On this day,
in another year,
one so distant
from the here and now,
it might as well be
a foreign country, she
held his hand
and told herself that he
was holding her's.
They danced a bit,
and drank a few
prohibited libations, and
then they danced
some more. He tripped
the light fantastic
like a movie star, and
dipped her so far down,
her sable hair kissed
the gritty dance floor
—made of real Norwegian
pine, which was,
they heard, the kind
that all the best clubs
used—and when
the band was packing up,
they bundled into his
father's Ford, and parked
up in the hills, where the night
was bright with stars,
and their friends were
in the other cars, and then
he gently held her hand,
and told himself
that she was holding his.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
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