SOME KIND OF TOO CLOSE Marguerite Dozier
We crept through the sharp darkness of that winter night and slipped through the unlocked door into synthetic light. The two of us climbed the stairs to the still-lighted theater, thrilled and flushed with quiet rebellion. You swept me off my feet across the black stage floor, lined with mirrors that we watched silently, locked in time in our private music box performance. My cheek found its resting place against your shoulder, your head lay against my hair. You smelled like cedar. I didn’t mean to end up there. You must have known the intimacy in this, but you didn’t seek my lips. I wonder if you did not want my kiss. I rested beside you, standing, swaying. I didn’t expect to fit into your chest. I sought answers to my questions but you turned me red— red with what I found in my head at the thought of you. And as I pressed into you, I felt a rush as we waltzed across the floor in front of wide-eyed windows on the balcony. And when we left, I said the cold night made me shiver. Careful not to touch me, you didn’t say a word. I climbed three floors, alone, and slipped into bed, and all the while, you waltzed through my head.