Lovers Dance

The stillness enveloped him like those few seconds after you have been hit by a twenty foot wave and you find yourself suspended upside down, motionless and quiet.  He stared at her, her shoulder-length hair blowing softly in the breeze easing in from the slowly closing door, her eyes, transfixed on his, were big and seemed to stare right into the very depths of his soul.  The door which was now almost closed let in a final little gust of disobedient air that when mixed with the smell of her shampoo and perfume, danced through the air and knocked him straight off his feet.
    From a distance he heard people talking and felt the sensation of someone holding his hand.  Light flickered in his eyes as he tried to open them and like that feeling you get when standing on a subway platform and a passing train enters the terminal at the speed of a drag car being driven by a drunken lunatic with a death wish, everything came rushing back to him.  
    His hand being held was now warm and slightly damp, the smell of the small shop seemed strong in his nostrils and fighting his gag reflex he opened his eyes.  
Leaning over him in the way that a massive cruise-liner leans over a small fishing boat was the fat store owner, a few strands of his hair were dangling off his head, with small drops of sweat hanging onto the ends with every ounce of strength they had.
“You ok monsieur?”  He asked, his voice sounded like it was exiting a deep cave.
“I sink so,”  Jean-Philippe replied, “I fell over?”
“Ah, you did monsieur, you did,”  replied the store owner trying desperately to hold back his laugh, “You fall down like lead parachute ha ha!”
    And with that everyone around him, like fireworks at a Chinese festival all accidentally lit at the same time, exploded with laughter.  Everyone that is, except for her.  He looked up and caught her gaze.  Being very careful not to break it nor freeze time again (because freezing time is dangerous when performed by a novice and takes many years to perfect), he lifted himself off the floor, grabbed her by the hand and ran towards the door.  Gallantly and with the strength of a warrior on a diet of red wine and cheese croissants, he kicked the door open and it reluctantly obeyed revealing the brightest day in France Jean-Philippe had ever seen.    Birds twittered and danced, bees danced and buzzed, the clouds just danced as they can make no sound, and suddenly an overwhelming feeling of joy and serenity came over the both of them.
“I am..”  Claire-Bear tried to get her name out into the open but Jean-Philippe put his finger, which was still poised and now starting to cramp a little, gently onto her lips.
“Shhhh..”  He said,  “Poly voo, shoo shoo patu rigagoo.”
“I have no idea what you just said?”  Claire-Bear looked into his eyes very confused.  “I don’t speak French.”
“Eet eeez not emportaaant, enjoy ze momaaaaant.”  He replied.
    
    And enjoy the moment they did.  Jean-Philippe strongly took her hand in his and slipped his free arm around her waist, his poised finger now relaxed and content, cramped no more.  He danced her right through the street twirling her, dipping and swinging.  This action was commonplace in France, the world capital of love, lovers and dating couples could often be seen dancing their way to the cinema and lavish restaurants or the local Monsieur McDonalds depending on their budget.  
    He danced her right into the night.
“Does this always happen in France?”  Claire-Bear wonderingly asked while her legs seemed naturally to find their own way through the dance steps.
“Oh my darleeeeng,”  Jean-Philippe replied full of confidence  and manly-ness, “You av no idea!”


To Be Continued...