The Last Dance

The music was loud and raucous. She had to shout at him amidst the writhing bodies on the dance floor. "I CAN'T DANCE TO THIS!" she shouted. He shook his head, not hearing a word she said. "I CAN'T DANCE TO THIS!" she shouted louder. "OK!" he shouted back. "LET'S JUST MAKE FACES AT EACH OTHER!" he shouted. So they stood there, and she stuck out her tongue. He crossed his eyes. She pulled on her ears, and made them stick out, sucked her cheeks in, and made a fish lipped pucker with her lips. He stuck his finger in his ear and poked his tongue into his opposite cheek, making it look like he had stuck his finger completely through his head. She put her middle fingers into each side of her mouth, and stretched her lips out into a grotesque face. He stuck a finger up his nose. THAT'S SO GROSS!" she shouted above the music. They went to an all night greasy spoon and had breakfast at 2 AM. They sat in a booth, giggling, and feeding each other scrambled eggs and pancakes. They were the only ones in the joint. He plugged the jukebox. Nat King Cole. They got up and slow danced while the little old lady behind the counter, her grey hair tied into a bun, watched, getting teary eyed. "You kids are a match made in heaven." the old woman said, as they paid out. They both smiled and nodded at her, then turned and embraced right in front of her. A long embrace. A long kiss. "Oh, my!" the old woman said, remembering some time long ago. He reached out for her hand, and looked at the name tag on her blouse. "Come here, Dixie" he said. He plugged the jukebox again, Nat King Cole, again. The song was Mona Lisa. He danced her slowly around the aisle between the booths and the counter. He looked over at his girlfriend who was nodding, smiling, and swaying to the music. They finally went home, back to her place. Too tired to have sex. The old woman went home at the end of her shift, and went to bed. She fell asleep thinking of how nice it was to feel young again, if only for the length of a song.