A small kitchen at 10:43

Grainy music sets the mood.

Hair: pinned back into rounded curls,
lipstick carefully applied, a bright red.

Cinched waist, wide skirt.

None of this matters,
because our hands are clasped,
and your hand is on my back,
clutching me tight.

Our feet step over the pale yellow tile,
reflecting the dusty overhead light,
spilling from above.

I can't see your eyes,
because we're cheek to cheek.

Inhaling the remnants of your morning shower,
worn cotton shoulders,
unable to see the dishes in the sink.

My pulse sways,
pulled along by the violin,
faded wallpaper.