When you took my hand and we slow-danced in front of the band that night, I knew it was a goodbye dance and that we’d never see each other again. I took your hand anyway, sliding my fingers in between yours and feeling their delicate grace from beneath your orange satin gloves. We moved slowly, rocking back and forth, our bodies pressed close. You rested your head on my shoulder, closing your eyes and smiling. I could smell your perfume and it reminded me of the time I drove through Washington, D.C. at 3:00 am once on a road trip and caught a whiff of the blooming cherry blossoms as I passed by an exit ramp. I still think about those cherry blossoms, and…