One Last Dance

“I guess one more last dance won’t hurt,” I whispered into her ear.
The music begins to play. “Ah Danse Macabre, our favorite.”
As the violins come in, she settles in my arms, as we spin, spin, spin. Her red hair cascades down her ivory shoulder and flows around my forearm, as I grasp her back. She moves so elegantly. I bury my face into the nape of her neck and can feel my warm breath emanating back at me.
The music picks up and I swing her about. My heart fills with utter joy, as the sight of the new dress I bought her hugs her perfectly so. I was right about the emerald color and how it would accentuate her features. Her hair is dull fire, and her lips are red hot iron. The dress flows down her hips, like the rolling hills of the old country. The sight is Nirvana.
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The violins continue to increase in tempo, and we are prancing, dancing feverishly. We lock eyes, her deep brown eyes staring back into mine, and I get lost in them.
They seem so cold and alone, but she is so loved, she must know.
The violins come to a dramatic pause and continue in a slow melancholy way, as our little dance follows suit. I pull her in close, and I can smell her freshness; her skin is warm.
We sway as the song comes to a close, and my heart sinks. We shall be parting ways very soon.
I lift her head off my shoulder ever so gently and give her a soft kiss. My hands fall to her breast, and she is mine. I can do what I please. But despite all my urges, I resist, for she is a lady, an Aphrodite amongst mere mortals. I am flush and apologize for my animalistic offense, yet she just gazes into my eyes and past my soul, wanting more—needing more. God could not have created a better ending to this perfect date.
I pick her up and throw her body back in the freezer, and begin to ascend up the basement stairs.
A smile comes over me as I look back for one final look at the object of my courtship’s final resting place.
“Until tomorrow my love…”
Category:Mental Illness
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