By Carolyn and Bill Newcott
The clock’s tired hands pull themselves toward 11 p.m. Our early evening was spent wallowing in distressingly repetitive TV news and high-calorie, low-nutrient streaming — and since 9:30, our heads have been buried in our laptops, our separate pursuits punctuated by occasional “huh”s and “take a look at this”-es.
And then the dance begins.
We have yet to isolate the unspoken signal that leads one of us to fold down that computer lid, extend a hand and invite the other to their feet. This is something new. Prior to our immersion into social distancing, in a decade together dancing has been reserved largely for weddings (“Uptown Funk”) and bar mitzvahs (“Brick House”).
But here we are, pressed up like teenagers, caressing so tightly there’s no space for the world to come between us. We swing around the room, our eyes drinking in each other’s gaze, our shuffling legs miraculously avoiding the coffee table. One song a night, and we alternate who gets to choose.
“Fly me to the moon,” Sinatra croons, when we couldn’t fly to Pittsburgh even if we wanted to.
“Our house is a very, very, very fine house,” chirp Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and we smile softly. Yes, yes it is.
“Come away with me in the night,” whispers Norah Jones.
We turn out the lights, rest our heads together, and do just that.