We spin and flail and laugh. We raise fists and shake heads and hips. I squeal and he throws his arms around my waist before we are back to spinning and flailing and twirling into people and maybe a wall or two.
We are very accomplished dancers, though limited mostly our personal kitchen dance parties. We probably would have looked ridiculous if weddings didn’t give everyone else an excuse to shimmy and thrash and strut about like lunatics.
I love dancing with him-- at home or here or maybe anywhere.
There was a slideshow. And the bride and groom seemed to have recorded every tiny milestone since the moment they met.
I forgot to bring my camera.
“See? Normal people take pictures,” I told Ted over my shoulder.
There’s stunningly little photographic evidence of our relationship. A glance at facebook would lead you to believe that if I do, in fact, have a boyfriend, he’s a 6’5 Indian fellow.
Spinning, spinning, spinning, I know he’s real. But it might not be a bad idea to have some proof.