She stands in the shadows of the alcove, her back to its inner wall, her black hair in a bun, her red lips pursed longingly as she gazes intently upon me as I saunter down the cobbled road in the noon day sun casually dressed in my pin stripped suit, ascot, and top hat. The intensity of her gaze stops me dead in my tracks in the middle of the street, a Vespa swerving and honking and shouting as it curls around me. I return her gaze just as intently. She steps out from the shadows in front of the doorway and squares off with me as I turn to her. I face her, she faces me. She is stunningly beautiful and athletic.

The improbability of it, the impossibility of it, could two strangers throw off the shackles of their different cultures, different languages in the middle of this humble road and dance to perfection. She sways ever so regally and the ends of her lip curl up in the subtlest of smiles. My moment of hesitation and doubt pass. “Now” I say, taking her hand, “shall we show the people the meaning of the word dance? Music!” I command.

The accordions and violins and cellos begin to play. We ready ourselves. “Not yet.” Our minds and hearts synchronize to the music. Our weight shifts to the front of our feet. “Now!” I put my hand on her slender waist. And we move as one, as if we are locked together in an eternal entangled embrace, that defies the laws of attraction and repulsion and gravity and effortlessness and all common sense. Spinning, pausing, swaying, rocking, dipping, lifting. Floating effortlessly above the cobblestone dance floor, above the street, moving in mid-air, her graceful legs parting her dress seductively, rising on the music, the joy, the love, kissing, lost forever in the moment.
The music stops. She curtsies to me. I bow to her. The street musicians go back to their business. The crowd disbands. She steps back into her doorway. I continue on my way down the street. The moment gone, the moment forever.