What She Remembers (Day 605)

She remembers him, sleek, 

elegant in black, on a night in June 

that shimmered like a mirage—

a night when he glanced up, over 

a room bubbling with guests—and 

saw her.

She remembers surprise and delight 

illuminating his black-coffee eyes, 

and the song the orchestra was playing 

as he wound his way across the dance floor,

through dozens of swaying couples,

  to say hello, 

  to say he enjoyed her latest,

  to say she was dazzling,

  to say he knew that, later, she would 

      want to ask his thoughts on...

She remembers him, that night, smiling, 

arrogant, pompous,

remembers telling him she didn’t care 

what he thought, 

remembers the silence as she walked away 

with (she hoped) a haughty tilt to her chin, 

   feeling his gaze trickle down her back,

   feeling him follow when she stepped 

      outside into a music-tinged night

   feeling him walk up behind her and stop, 

      only a foot away, where she could hear 

      the catch in his breath 

before he whispered her name, 

before he said what she remembers 

to this day...

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Emilio Labrador/Flickr (CC BY-2.0)