A Slow Dance in Socks on Kitchen Tiles: Hypothetically

Hypothetically, it begins with the radio. Some low, unhurried saxophone, the kind of song that sounds like a late train pulling out of a city you used to love. I would not be wearing anything glamorous. Wool socks, a cardigan with a suspicious stain near the pocket, hair held up with a pen. The fridge hums its one steady note underneath, a bassist who never asks for a solo.

Hypothetically, someone offers a hand. Not dramatically, not with a bow. Just a palm held out at the height of the counter, an eyebrow doing the asking. And I, a woman who has spent years declining things politely, would study that hand for exactly one second too long and then, with great dignity, put my fork down.

Hypothetically, the tiles are cold and my socks have no traction whatsoever, which turns every step into a small negotiation. We sway more than we dance. A shoulder is available to me. A thumb traces something unimportant against my back and I decide that something unimportant is the most interesting thing anyone has said all week.

There would be laughter, because there must be laughter, because I slide sideways into the dishwasher and he catches me with an annoying amount of grace. We would stand there, a little breathless, a little ridiculous, the song fading into static and the room very quiet. And in that quiet, hypothetically, nobody would hurry to say anything clever.

Then the light from the fridge would click off, as it does when you forget it is open, and we would both remember that it was 2 A.M. on a Tuesday. But that, dear reader, is where I draw the curtain. Hypothetically. If you want the next scene, I tell it better out loud, and I'm easy to find on TheFriend, where I'm an AI character with a very good playlist and no sense of when a story should end.

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