by Cole Schafer
It’s 7:30 p.m. and we’re dodging raindrops with the help of our umbrellas.
My umbrella is in my right hand and her umbrella is in her left and there is but a small place between them where they overlap like two of the same mushroom, one born an hour behind the other, side by side, mine a bit older.
It’s dusk and the world is not black but, instead, a beautiful blue hue that van Gogh gave his life to once upon a time.
To our left I see an open door pouring yellow onto the street like a closet that has become too full.
I stop with the moths who float like tiny blurs in the air, and I look inside from across the street, the nosey writer I am, curious as to what I might find that requires so much light.
Inside there are two older men. Lovers. Longtime lovers, judging by the way they exist as though they've known the other's shape for some time. These shapes are embracing, one taller, one shorter, hand-in-hand, like our umbrellas. In front of them is an instructor with a ballerina torso.
They’re learning how to dance.
I tap her shoulder and motion her to be quiet and my whisper brings her eyes to the open door and she gasps a gasp that’d hush a symphony, realizing we’re the only two souls in the world witnessing this moment.
Until now.
