Shall We Dance?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
A young mans experience at a wedding; feeling as an outsider due to the difference of his character.

Submitted: June 03, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 03, 2008



Perhaps I am but a horrid departure from whatever true intent is meant of my habituation in society. Is my constitution that of sacrilegious debauchery? When individuals implore with their eyes the masculinity of my persona, my dress, am I but my own provocation, a victim to that which I known not the precipitate of derivation?  I suppose so; after all, they have often proved me their validity.
The staged magnificence of love’s adjoining encumbered my emotion; my lie an intruder upon such innocent expectations – many a persons perceived purpose. A perpetual smile possessed both the nerves and anticipations of feminine grace while held her hand the boyish face of adoration. Drawn upwards were mine eyes as echoed the harmony of strings beneath gilded ceiling and tapestried walls; Palladian windows and Corinthian columns. It seemed, this union, this marriage rather, genuine; love festooned in such earnest array. As stood we heralding the gallantry, this amorous, brash foray, I hoped my constitution would not fall short of the parents, family, and friends so enthused with pride and joviality at this formality of love’s occurrence. My mother smiled; I seeing in her the many comments and questions she had so directed towards me – inquiring as to any others, her opinion being my match for Wellesley girls. I’ve always played along.
Wingtip black dress shoes, white pants, starched and with a cuffed hem, a fitted argyle sweater under which I wore a navy blue striped shirt with a wide spread, stiff collar, solid baby blue tie and French cuffs – fitted with silver cuff links; I styled my hair that night, curls more neatly arranged and distributed than usual. Shifting my legs to a more masculine position I adjusted my cuff links; reaching for the glass of champagne untouched by my empty-seated acquaintance. It was a bit warm but the bubbles went right to my head and I felt inspiration derived from such a perceived rush to join the dance floor – an act defying the suave sophistication with which I carried myself through much of the evening; it was my third glass.
My brow perspiring from rhythm’s drive, I sought reprieve by means of a glass of water; nevertheless pleasantly surprised by an open invitation of untouched glasses of champagne – I regained composure and lightheadedness. Someone requested Sinatra – it was slow. Offering my brother my hand I received only a quizzical look of befuddlement – rebuking my earnest attempts at the time to get him to dance with me. Fastidiously absconding imprudence I found a corner in which to fume embarrassment and regain sophistication – however depleted by indiscretion and champagne; relishing the last few sips, the last few glass’s. I crossed my legs; no one could see me.
The lights dimmed as grew late the hour, near the dawn; this change of scenery – the exponentials of solitude retreating as bitter went my meanderings. Light enamored the glass vase of delicately arranged flowers; casting shadows on white linens strewn with bits of gourmet repast. I found one of these and began to slice its staleness with the dulled fingernail of my thumb – taking half and placing it in my mouth, staleness no more but salivated saturation. Another glass. I loosened my collar to feel the smoothness of my neck, interrupted by the stubble of my chin. Sinatra again; people swaying to the silk of his tenor. I wanted someone to dance with: a hand upon my back guiding the intrigue of passion’s romance, a pair of eyes to meet when swung in tender circles around that man I call my own, a shoulder to rest the brow of my bliss, a cheek to share the warmth of my breath, the touch of his lips, the radiance of his laughter, the emptiness of his absence.
Near approached my mother, ever so caring, ever so gracious in habiliments, in spirit; I uncrossed my legs, well, at least for now.

© Copyright 2018 J A T. All rights reserved.

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