The way they held hands wasn’t simply a clasping of fingers, or a meeting of palms. No, they held hands, but really, it was a massage, a never-ending tracing of the lines in the hand, a constantly-moving dance like two lovers pressed close on the ballroom floor. Those in love should never just hold hands.
The way the shot left his hand was beautiful. Somehow, as it made its departure from its home to its destination, you knew, like you know an airplane will land where it’s supposed to, that it would fulfill the dream, the hope, the command it was given, and fall through the rim perfectly and completely.
The music playing filled the air with pleasantness, the strains of better times. The melody was unpredictable, yet sweet. The lyrics were poetry, the best poetry. The feeling revived within him of deep sadness over what had disintegrated gave testament to the strength of the song. He could identify with the message and heartbeat of the harmonies playing according to the rules set out for them. He felt as if the song had been written only for him, and for his situation. But the tune ended, and his sorrow did not, playing to the notes of a song written inside his head, set continually to “Repeat.”