Shannon

Again with the cross posting. This from TD. Someone started a thread that, because of the influence of the music of Charlotte Martin, I was unable to battle the memory.
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Mine will be bittersweet, I fear. But beautiful in that I knew it for what it was. She was the one that got away. Shannon from my youth, as she has come to be called in my head. Shannon who danced.

She and I had danced around each other and with each other for a couple years. Everyone knew about us and that damn unrequited attraction. She knew me inside and out; knew enough to know that one step closer meant two steps back.

We met one night through a mutual friend. I had been dragged out of my reclusivity to a small gathering of friends enjoying a jacuzzi. I walked in and she rose from the water, naked from the waist up. Wine glass in hand, she made her way across the water to look me dead in the eye and mutter the first of what were always perfect phrases: "Who is this woman because she is goddamn my type."

She had a way with coy; a way with words that struck me deeply. Her eyes... good God, her eyes.

But we were never to be.

Any chance we had came to an end when I told her I was moving away. We made no half-hearted promises of staying in touch.

She danced for me that night. In a room full of people and throbbing music, this creature who is still a part of me danced only for me. Her eyes never leaving mine, smiling but weeping gently, me watching her from across that room. I went to her and wrapped her up from behind. We held on for long moments. "I love you," I said in her ear over that loud music. "I have always loved you."

I have always loved her. I think I always will, this girl who got away. But that goodbye was so beautiful. So perfect. I feel it still.

I feel her still.