Finding Paris

Hackensack

I stopped coming to the dance after that night. I stopped coming and eventually people grew tired of it and I saw the crowd thinning out when I passed by to run for food on the nearby pancake house. One Thursday night, I found the park completely empty, devoid of sound and low chatter it usually contained. It stopped altogether.

It has been two years now. I still remember him, you know. What we had, for that brief nine days, was quite beautiful. Without words, we conversed. Without asking for each other's names, we knew each other. It was something surreal that I would want to hold on to but was not able to since we never did see each other again after La Vie en Rose ended that Thursday night.

Sometimes, I look upon the sky and wonder where he might be, what he might be doing and if he still remembers those nine Thursdays we were both a part of. 

I still live on the same area, only I transferred a few blocks away to a high-ceiling studio-type glass house which I used to adore from afar way before the dancing began. I pass by the park sometimes. When time permits me to, I sit on the little blue swing and stare at the sun drowning to a million ripples on the silver glaze of the sea. I look back to that corner of the park near the benches where the elderly used to sit. That's where we danced and let ourselves burst from our bodies and sway freely hand in hand with the music. He never did come back. He probably never will.

But this time, I stayed much longer than usual and heard footsteps and panting behind me. I heard music playing. I was afraid to turn around and be disappointed. But that person, whoever he or she was, tapped me on the shoulder and so I did. And we embraced each other like long-lost friends.

"I missed us dancing."