I hit into him after he spins me, our hands still intertwined. The jukebox hums ‘The Very Thought of You,’ as other couples twist around us eyebrows raised.
“Was that really necessary?” I ask, my cheeks hot.
“You’re the best,” he whispers, kissing my forehead.
The radio on the bedside table buzzes the foggy but familiar tune from years before.
I’ve since traded the dance floor for a hospital bed, my skirt for a paper gown.
He smiles at me and intertwines our fingers, making our arms dance slowly.
“You’re the best,” I whisper, drawing his hand downwards to kiss it.