He dances like I've never seen before, all flailing arms and crazy legs. He looks, to me, like a great unbalanced bird: an ostrich, maybe, or perhaps a wounded skua. It's got a rhythm, though, a beat I could never quite catch: kickback, kickback. It hits me that the music is his heartbeat, just as surely as the air is his breath.
The song is wild, its lyrics inaudible over the stampeding drums and reckless guitar. The trombone sings with abandon, talking just to him, he who can dance like no one is watching. He sings back, his movement a gift to the wailing instrument. I watch and nod my head like it's cool.
When we have had enough of the cacophony we race each other to the parking lot, pulling each other across the makeshift finish line, laughing at ourselves and our clinging coupliness. He is mine, I shout wordlessly to the envious, broadcasting with every gesture. In the same moment I think tenderly, You are mine. I kiss him to feel the warmth of his lips against my own.
On the ride home we are comfortably silent. We switch the radio on and I lean back, letting the world pass me by in the dark. I wonder if it's the car or the scenery that's moving.
Later he is still under my searching hands, breathing in time with me as our atoms speak skin-to-skin. A million tiny miracles keep each of us alive as compounds are built and broken. I trace the contours of his skin, marveling at each molecule, reaching for every cell.
He does not move, but still I feel him dancing.
He lifts his eyes to mine and sighs in easy contentment. He looks like a sphinx when he yawns, with his lion's eyes and mane of spun-gold hair. I kiss him, running a hand down the gentle, familiar curve of his back.
I rest a hand on his cheek, speaking the silent language only lovers and infants know: we have an early day tomorrow, and nothing seems so blissful as a long sleep, curled up into each other like perfect nesting dolls.
He turns off the light and we gratefully sink into oblivion, welcoming sleep with open arms.