She danced. As close to beautiful as possible.
I was 17 at the time, and she was 16. It was early February. We were young and alive and in what we called love. We were both members of a drum and bugle corps; I played a baritone bugle, and was generally the life of the party, while she was in the Colour Guard, and was the epitome of shy in large groups. But we held a magic together, where she calmed me down and I allowed her to open up. We did stupid things in those days, risked all and laughed heartily. We didn't care about impending doom or tomorrow or anything at all.
We spent hours lying in bed, tracing the outline of letters on each others' backs, guessing little hidden messages from our fingertips. I once wrote out her first name followed by my surname, but she didn't notice. I did, however, catch when she traced "sexy beast" on my back, and we made love for hours.
She lived in a too-small townhouse with her widowed father, so she used to practice her dance routines for the drum corps outside. I usually didn't take the time to watch her; Nintendo beckoned too often, and also had a tendency to chuckle at her mistakes when her flag would come tumbling down at her from a mishandled toss. But she wanted me to watch her late one evening in the middle of February, with the heavy snow slowly blanketing the patio where she was standing.
"I need you to watch me tonight."
And she danced. As close to beautiful as possible.
A week later she told me she was pregnant. A month later she was out of my life. The magic was gone.
She had an abortion, something we both agreed on. But we were never the same. She told me she couldn't have me around, it was too painful. We grew up. I went on to University and found someone else. She got engaged and never called again.
I traced her name with mine on her back. What did she trace that I didn't catch? I try and see the words I missed every time the snow falls at night, but I can't make them out. I can still see her though, exactly the way she was that one evening in the middle of February, with the heavy snow slowly blanketing the patio where she was standing.
Laughing, tracing, dancing. Beautiful.
Please don't vote on this. It's cathartic. It was also the 8 year anniversary of the day she told me she was leaving me.