Robert Alexander

Whatever dance she was doing, it wasn’t one I was familiar with. I kept stumbling over my own feet, or perhaps it was her feet, I was never too sure about that. Picture this: the river stretching out before you, lights of the city glittering off its surface—or maybe you’re deep in the woods and the river is there before you, a presence in the night. Japanese lanterns on the black wrought-iron fence, the dance floor smooth beneath your feet (bare feet, perhaps, it being summer).

And the music? I couldn’t tell you, after all this time. A waltz or two, a few sad sentimental tunes. You know the story, boy and girl, he off to the war and she along to college. A walk to the water’s edge—and, bare feet, a splash in the current. As though it were yesterday, the smell of shampooed hair. Perhaps, for a moment or two, we got it right, the dance, our feet together, sliding on the sawdust floor. It’s hard to say.