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I turned at the words, practically into John's arms he was so close, and thought to myself, I love this man. The words came unbidden and were gone as quickly as they came, but the realization was so authentic and so obvious that for one panicked moment I thought I had said the words aloud. What I felt was nothing like I remembered or expected, only a comfort at his presence and a vague, restless unhappiness when he was not around, certainly not that giddy, gay feeling I'd had with Charlie McKinney. This was a different emotion altogether, deep and quiet and true, not fireworks but definitely fire. All that went through my mind in a moment.
I said quickly, "John, I'm?" but he didn't give me time to finish. Instead, with a gentle touch he brushed away one tear still on my cheek.
"I don't like to see you cry," he said quietly, not smiling, then added, "I think this is our dance," and without waiting for a reply, not even standing on the dance floor but right there on the hard-packed ground, he put his arms around me, and we began to dance. As the slow and dreamy waltz played, we moved together, our bodies hardly touching, his cheek against my hair and my hand lightly in his.
I wanted to say, "I'm sorry I spoke in that scornful, condescending way. I didn't mean it. I wish I could take the words back," but I didn't say any of those things. Perhaps later I would apologize, or he would bring it up and we would talk about it, but now was not the time. The world had righted itself, and I would not risk upsetting it again.
