"Wait until the horn comes back in," they would dance furiously during the bridge, as if it were a musical number from Fred and Ginger. Semi-choreographed, they'd jump and twirl around whatever furniture/set surrounded them at the time. She had a way of balancing herself on one leg, holding herself in midair, floating longer than gravity should allow. There were a few bars where they could catch their breath, before the horns.
Standing in his living room, or at a check-in desk at a motel, or in the lobby, their eyes would meet, daring the other to dance. There usually wasn't enough room, and it was silly to do in front of others at first, but the dare became bigger than the embarrassment. Especially the twirls.
For both of them, it was a primal physical memory of childhood, losing control of gravity and being spun by another body. Nonsexual, yet almost incestuous in the reaction. Almost hyperventilating because you are laughing so hard and can barely keep your breath.
"Close as you can get to orgasm while keeping your clothes on, " he said
"Almost better than singing with you," she said.
"Wait, wait. NOW!" He'd put his arms around her and spin her, gracefully, tightly. She could never not laugh. His smile was bright and innocent, close enough to kiss; her face would brush against his beard harshly, scratching. A casualty of the fun. A bruise she'd still feel hours later, even when she could no longer remember the details of his embrace.
The single greatest physical joy brought to her by another body. Spinning in their orbit. Feeling their gravity and control over your momentum.It was a game, to spin her as quickly as possible. Although she played it too, so she was never sure who was the instigator, or who was winning. They were evenly matched here, and the music stopped short for the singer to continue.
"You are . . ." it could easily have been a song of insults. And sometimes, when they fought, and he wanted to call her names, she'd sing to him. Slowly, taking all the drama out of the recording. Now the listener was being complimented, and the singer quickly ran out of comparisons. "The dearest things I know are what you are," Trust me, it's not that you are JUST the miracles of nature, those perfect moments that create the beauty, you are all the stuff I can't even name.
That should cover it.
Jerome Kern sang it as part of his dying breath. She always thought of that. You are better than anything I could ever do or write, and I'm still trying to sing your praises. I'll never finish.
And appropriate to the movie they imagined they were in, they'd finish in a flourish. Which also sometimes resulted in applause by bewildered bystanders. They'd land with a laughing sigh, their game completed.
No matter how tired, she'd always ask to do it again. Like a little child realizing the difference between earth's gravity and centripetal force, pulling you into another human's orbit. And who loves the idea that there is all the time and energy in the world to do it again and again.
"All the Things You Are" performed by Keely Smith
written by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II
Standing in his living room, or at a check-in desk at a motel, or in the lobby, their eyes would meet, daring the other to dance. There usually wasn't enough room, and it was silly to do in front of others at first, but the dare became bigger than the embarrassment. Especially the twirls.
For both of them, it was a primal physical memory of childhood, losing control of gravity and being spun by another body. Nonsexual, yet almost incestuous in the reaction. Almost hyperventilating because you are laughing so hard and can barely keep your breath.
"Close as you can get to orgasm while keeping your clothes on, " he said
"Almost better than singing with you," she said.
"Wait, wait. NOW!" He'd put his arms around her and spin her, gracefully, tightly. She could never not laugh. His smile was bright and innocent, close enough to kiss; her face would brush against his beard harshly, scratching. A casualty of the fun. A bruise she'd still feel hours later, even when she could no longer remember the details of his embrace.
The single greatest physical joy brought to her by another body. Spinning in their orbit. Feeling their gravity and control over your momentum.It was a game, to spin her as quickly as possible. Although she played it too, so she was never sure who was the instigator, or who was winning. They were evenly matched here, and the music stopped short for the singer to continue.
"You are . . ." it could easily have been a song of insults. And sometimes, when they fought, and he wanted to call her names, she'd sing to him. Slowly, taking all the drama out of the recording. Now the listener was being complimented, and the singer quickly ran out of comparisons. "The dearest things I know are what you are," Trust me, it's not that you are JUST the miracles of nature, those perfect moments that create the beauty, you are all the stuff I can't even name.
That should cover it.
Jerome Kern sang it as part of his dying breath. She always thought of that. You are better than anything I could ever do or write, and I'm still trying to sing your praises. I'll never finish.
And appropriate to the movie they imagined they were in, they'd finish in a flourish. Which also sometimes resulted in applause by bewildered bystanders. They'd land with a laughing sigh, their game completed.
No matter how tired, she'd always ask to do it again. Like a little child realizing the difference between earth's gravity and centripetal force, pulling you into another human's orbit. And who loves the idea that there is all the time and energy in the world to do it again and again.
"All the Things You Are" performed by Keely Smith
written by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II
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