The Decorating Committee

All morning, then through lunch, into the afternoon, he felt her presence near him. Tight, rolled-up jeans and a close-fitting top, bare-foot tennies below tanned rounded calves. Hair down, straight and simple, pulled firmly back into a businesslike pony-tail. A trim, mature woman whose lovely scent reached him from across the room. Got him humming "The Nearness of You!"

She, all the rest of them, and all the work they shared, transported him back to his seventeenth year, decorating for the OctoberFest Dance. His football buddies and all the cheerleaders and other special girls kept flashing through his mind in strange and lovely images. Working hard, laughing. Getting things done. All the while painfully and sweetly aware of the girls.

But now, after nearly fifty-five years, it was mostly about her. The way she looked and carried herself. And how that made him want to gather her up into his arms. To dance with her quietly close against him.

Maybe never let her go.

Throughout the day, her presence kept slipping him back in time. To the night he first really saw her. . .one twilight evening after play-practice. A lovely girl-child of sixteen, blossoming and bright. Even then she had leaned quickly into her life. Had leaned up into his face. Not bargaining. More like gently taunting him. . .trying herself out. . .wondering how far she could take him.

But he was a young teacher. And while he felt what she was doing, trying to do, he protected both of them casually with a knowing grin. A quick-friendly smile ending in an easy laugh and a soft-fond touch on the shoulder of her cashmere sweater. His manner light, as if to say: No harm done. YES! You are lovely. Thank You. But NO! Then he turned quickly on his heel, and in the growing darkness walked the half-block back to the home of a friend he was visiting for the evening. And that had been THAT.

But THIS time, this time at the reunion fifty-five years later, late in the evening, she suddenly appeared before him. . .still gorgeous in a slim-flowing, red cocktail dress: low across her shoulders, dipping still lower revealing her cleavage. A knowing, sweet smile. Tanned shoulders. The soft caress of her gentle cologne. She stood proudly there inviting him, her bare upper-arms close to her bodice, her palms up, reaching out, ready to gather him fondly to her.

He couldn't hear the music, or any sounds at all. She was so stunning, so warm and welcoming. This time. . .this time he reached out gently and gathered her into his arms.

And for him, this time. . .
it was much more than a dance.