In the arms of an old man

he holds me formally, one hand under my left shoulder, the other one holding my own straight. his steps are precise if a bit slow, and his eyes look upon me benevolently when i step on his foot. they are very old eyes, sparkly from the music but tired from life. yet he has shown up at today’s event, dressed immaculately, with shiny shoes and a fedora, together with many other old timers in all their finery. and now he is dancing with me.
i am touched. as he takes me expertly around the dancing floor, i feel indeed very special. i did not know that i had it in me to see past the old man and mothball smell, or to feel so secure in those dry freckled hands.
the music goes faster and my feet tend to follow it without regard for my partner’s creaking joints. yet, he subdues me, brings me closer to his rythm and i understand that all my energy is not a match for the experience and knowledge that seep from his feet. and that if i want to learn, i should quit my noise once again and follow.
earlier on, I and ms D. performed the flamenco for our elderly audience. I never really studied the footwork and i am not good at it, but i thought that i could fool these oldies because i have good posture. wrong idea. the man who is so carefully twirling me around has surely seen through my ruse. a master like this understands the inability to coordinate and remember intricate footwork during performance. yet here he is, showing me what i miss in my dance, elegantly and expertly. and if i give him back the feeling of holding once more a pretty young thing in his arms, i am glad for that. it is but a small trade for what i am receiving.
he smiles at me again and i think of how devastaing this smile would have been once upon a time. i also understand how much we miss today with the crunk and the stomp and whatever passes for dance. yes it is impressive to writhe every muscle of my body or shake that booty until all are hipnotized. but how am i going to show that to my grandchildren when i am 94? what dance will i leave for them? will another young product of our culture have the chance that i am having now, to be held or to hold experience and elegance in his/her arms?
then the dance ends, the man accompanies me to my seat, kisses my hand, bows and takes his seat. i am still in a swoon.

11 thoughts on “In the arms of an old man

  1. thank you for your encouragement.
    i have been telling stories since i was 5 and then writing from 11. my few publishing efforts have not been that successful, partly because i am a lazy bum tending towards underwire nightwear and imaginary french windows, and nothing more. partly because my parents keep expecting me to grow out of the “artistic phase and enter the real worl” even now that i am over 30. beats me why, but i’d had to keep one foot in each world for as long as i can remember, and i have never been that good at splits (sparkata) let me tell you.
    but if you can give me a reference to a publishing agency, i’d be more than happy to take it. that world is closer to me that the lips of a virgin oyster.

  2. What nice story,well done girll that is special emotion,that is really ,realy love! I like it! o bletezz sa e mire je,si shpirt je ,dhe edi se pse se i ke dhene nje shans atij plaku, te ringjallet, oh sa e bukur ndjenje,eshte dashuria kur ne mes eshte perputhja! Urime!

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