The Old Couple We Could've Been

On an empty dance floor in a grand foyer, on a floating resort drifting across the Caribbean, they’re dancing to every song, hand in hand, hip to hip, cheek to cheek, two dancing queens, barely seventy. They’re in Hawaiian shirts that match by pattern: one in green, one in red, mixing into a charming Christmas blend and paired with dress pants and black shined shoes so chic they almost convince you they’re in full tuxedos. One’s bald like an egg, the other has a surprising amount of greyish white hair, the two seemingly sharing one young head of hair between them yet ripping up the dance floor like they’re still in their twenties. The two old-timers drift and slide across the marble flooring, their reflections below them lit up by the overhead chandeliers coating the hall with a yellow haze. Their smiles are as wide as Louis Armstrong’s, grinning across their wrinkled faces with their united eyes. 

A quiet boy sitting in an upholstered chair looks over at them from the third storey, contemplating going down the regal staircase leading down to the dance floor. His trembling hands want to wipe his tears away, dragging along his face, yet he keeps his eyes open, staring at their interlocked hands, reminding him of the soft ones he can no longer hold.