The Last Dance

The old couple sat on the park bench, huddled together. 

Her hair, usually set just so, with a whole can of hairspray lending its hand to keep it in place, was wild.  A bird’s nest of wire that had been pulled this way and that by the wind that tugged and yanked in protest, it seemed, at the lack of hair her companion had on his head.  If it couldn’t have its fun with him, then it would double its efforts with her. 

They were oblivious.  He had a tear slipping down his cheek, sneaking along so as not to be noticed.  She had a smile.  Or the beginnings of one.  Or her mouth was toying with the idea of producing one.  Either way, it wasn’t a frown and it was more than a simple line of non-emotion. 

For a very long time, neither spoke.  The one tear on the man’s cheek was chased by another and when that finally dripped from his chin (to be stolen away by the over-enthusiastic breeze) a third joined in the trail, creating a continuous scar of moisture down his face. 

The bench had seen better days.  Once it had been a shining example of varnished perfection, and the plaque commemorating the loved, departed wife of a sad and lonely man had shone in celebration of the dawning day.  Now the varnish had morphed into tarnish.  The shine into grime.  The smooth into groove as innumerable backsides and knives and spent chewing gums had visited the seat and left their mark. 

To the old man, it still shone.  It still held onto, somewhat desperately, its initial glory.  He saw beyond the crude scratchings.  He didn’t notice the carved declarations of love by teenager couples that would split within days or hours of their proclamation.  The faded, cracked, peeling paint was hidden from his gaze, partly by cataracts and partly by memory. 

“It’s been so long,” he said.  His voice was a touch above a whisper.  Any louder and it would have cracked open, spilling the years of buried loss at his feet. 

The woman moved in closer.  There was barely a gap between them, the air and light squeezed out to enable her to hold him as close as he needed her to. 

“I know.”  Her tone was a mix of sadness and fate.  What was, was.  The years had made their mark on him as much as they had on the bench.  He bore the same scars and his gloss was faded and peeling.  Neither of them could change that.  “But it’s time.” 

“Past time,” he said.  He was right.  Why had he survived?  Why had he lingered on, when he was little more than a shade?  He’d stopped living so many years ago and everything since had been… well, it had been a waste.  The breaths he’d taken could have been someone else’s.  The food he’d eaten, what little there had been, could have fed other mouths.  The beats of his heart were redundant, as his heart had been a hollow stone since… that day. 

His hand reached back and touched the plaque.  Tender.  Loving. 

He shook his head.  Why did he hurt so much?  Why couldn’t he just let go? 

He spoke the question aloud. 

“You have,” said the woman.  She sat up and took his hand, pulling him to his feet.  “Why do you think I’m here?” 

The old man shook his head again.  “I didn’t think of that.” 

“Come on,” she said, “Let’s go.” 

They walked along the path towards the old bandstand where they used to dance on a Sunday afternoon, so many years before.  Back when people did dance.  Back when they felt the music.  Back when she was alive. 

“When we were both alive,” she smiled. 

Shouts and a siren made Albert turn back to the bench.  A group of people huddled around it, a couple on their mobile phones.  An ambulance was parked at an odd angle, its front wheels on the grass.  A paramedic was bent over the body of an old man.  He was shaking his head to his partner. 

The woman pulled at his hand as the sound of a band filled the air. 

“Are you dancing?” he asked, finally turning away from the sight of his body. 

“Are you asking?” she smiled.