Dancing in the Moonlight

Have you ever witnessed true love? Just observed it, in it’s most natural of states? Not in the simpering, dramatic way romantic comedies portray it. Boomboxes being held overhead, kissing in the rain, running through an airport, interrupting a wedding with a startling revelation- those trite, recycled tropes of claiming what’s yours before you lose it forever. They’re cute. They sell us on the idea that happily ever after is always just within our grasp, if we choose it. But true love? How is one supposed to recognize it?

The way the scene unfolded was better than any movie I’d ever seen. From the cozy balcony of my flat, peeking out over the courtyard, I watched a woman with twinkling eyes as she smiled softly. The look of longing and tenderness in her eyes was so heated, you could singe your fingertips if you got in it’s way. Those eyes had one, singular focus – him. No one else existed as she gazed up at him, the moon overhead and the twinkling lights of the stars lending to the romantic scene. She was Helen of Troy, her beauty delicate and unmatched. She wore a beautiful, red gown that shimmered in way that certainly was the envy of the city of lights. Paris was exactly the place for such beauty.

Her curly, voluminous hair floated on a passing breeze, a small shudder working it’s way through her. He must have noticed because he gently drew her raven locks away from her full lips, and brushed the coils back over her bared shoulder. He murmured something to her, undecipherable, but well received. She laughed a genuine laugh, one that shook her entire, petite frame. And the way he cherished the sight in return? Palpable. Every time he touched her, her breathing faltered. Every time the wind blew, he moved closer to her and inhaled her intoxicating scent.

He was beautiful, as well. His darker features gave him an exotic look not native to Paris. He was well formed and over 6 feet- a classic Italian stallion. Or perhaps, a Grecian god. It was hard to tell from my vantage point, but the fact that they were into each other was clear. A nearby street performer took notice of them, and in true Parisian style, began to sing.

His large, strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her in closer. She swooned at his touch, floating on air, it seemed, as they began to dance. Tourists. Usually annoying, but this evening I was charmed. I had a deadline, but was seemingly uninspired all day. All day, up until now. As I stared at this couple, I sipped on my glass of Chardonnay, and wondered what their origin story was. What led them to this little strip of street, where they danced on broken cobblestones in the streets of Paris? In what universe did two perfectly beautiful people, find an uncharacteristically, warm night on the Seine, to dance freely and be wooed by a stranger with perfect pitch? It was too disgustingly sweet to be true. But here I was, witnessing it.

And that’s when I saw it. The real story. There, maybe a couple hundred feet from the couple, someone else observed. She stood there, shoulders sagging, gripping her left hand in her right. Though not nearly as beautiful as the woman in red, she was captivating. She wore a plain white dress, and flat sandals. Her hair was pulled back from her face, secured in a ponytail. Her striking features- the high cheekbones and wide set eyes were unmasked by makeup. Her lips were pressed together and her jaw tight.

She let go over her hand for a moment so she could free them up to swipe at her face. I realized, she was wiping tears away. Her left hand housed a brilliant, but twisted, diamond ring on it. I knew, in an instant, I was looking at the man’s wife. There was less conflict on her fact than on mine- she was stoic. Tears were still streaming down her face as she watched the couple dance, alternating between twisting her ring and shaking her head. When they kissed, I could see her knees almost buckled. She watched the scene for a few, suspended seconds more, before taking a deep breath.

In that instant, I thought of so many ways the scene could play out. Surely, she’d stalk over there and claim what was rightfully hers. I steeled myself, slightly excited at the prospect of her confronting her cheating spouse and the beautiful woman. I wondered if the beautiful woman knew he was married- its not like he was wearing a ring. I wondered if the plain woman would scream, or perhaps try to fight one or both of them. But, then she did the one thing I didn’t expect. She simply turned her back on the pair, and retreated.

I think of that woman often. Not because I watched her heart break. I think what I witnessed was true love. Was it love so strong for another, that she wanted him to be happy, even if it was with someone else? Or was it love of self; an undeniable truth that led her to leave for her own self-preservation? Either way, love isn’t always dancing in the moonlight. Sometimes, love is simply walking away.