sometimes in summer

Sometimes I picture her in that house. It is summer, and it is evening. He is there. They've left the curtains open. Not because they meant to. But, afternoon has given way to evening and in the abundance of laziness that is a summer Saturday, the windows, like the dishes in the sink remained, wide open and gaping. The evening inhales and exhales and warm air slowly streams in like a breath on their backs, an invisible reminder of summer's presence. Yellow lantern light filters through the curtains, casting shadows about the wood floor. He gets up to put a record on. Before taking her from the sofa, she doggy-ears a page in her book. He pulls her close. Rising up on her toes, she rests her head on his shoulder. There, in the yellow light of a summer lantern, they dance, barefoot. Back. Front. Left. Right. Their steps become slower and slower until they stop. The music fades into the moonlight.