January 9, 2011

My dearest,

I warm bowls of leftover soup for us – old chicken, carrot, tomatoes and sweetcorn are comforting ingredients for a cold evening. We sup, our spoons tinkling against our bowls as we chat, as we recount our busy day at work. You tell me there is a song you want me to listen to. You head to your computer and search for the song on the internet. You find it, and click play. You say the title of the song is “Night Blindness”; the singer is Tanya Chua, a Singaporean. I say I know who she is and you look pleasantly surprised. But I’ve not heard this song before. It’s lovely. You stand up and start to sway to the music. I come to you, wrap my arms around you, and we slip into a slow dance in place, just our bodies moving, swaying, pressed against each other. I let my head fall against your shoulder, rest it there. I smell your clothes, the perfume that resides in their fibre, that lingers all along your shoulder blades. I turn higher and smell your neck and you smell different here, more sweat and skin, perhaps. Delicious. I sink my nose into your hair, tickling it, and I smell lavender, the shampoo you use, and the night itself. There’s nothing quite like your scents, wonderful. And we dance until the song ends. I give you a kiss on the lips and we have smiles in our eyes.

We’ve been dancing, as the night is blind.

Yours, ever and always.