Claimed

Sunset sky gives a fine color to the drizzling rain... Tiny raindrops shimmer with gold as they land on the green, so softly as to not hurt the basils and chives.

The sun disappears into the gloom behind the faraway mountains. Something in the distance – the sound of a roaring engine. It draws nearer. Not many seconds later, an old, but well-kept and clean Toyota Camry pulls in. He steps outside, and as he does so, the night pulls its black curtain upon our Adonis. A soporific mist rises from the ground, shrouding all in obscurity. The gentleman's black hair is still dripping from the rain that deepens its hue of saturated mocha. He doesn't wait much longer and runs into the reception hall.

She swirled in nervous excitement, almost nothing in her dress of pink blush. The music throbbed in her ears. Lights flickered in ecstasy, overwhelming the guests on the dance floor. She scrutinized the room, searching through a sea of brilliant colors, waves of lights reflected in the gentle petals of boutonnieres and in the sheer laces of silky fabrics. He wasn’t there. Disappointment struck her like a hammer on the nails of the crucifix. He said he’d be late. But the dance was nearing its end.

She sighed and laid against the wall, helpless and lifeless, like salt crystals that had lost their brackish taste.

Then – a gentlest tap on her bare shoulder.

She turned around.

There he was, his handsome face troubled with slight wrinkles. His clear eyes behind the intellectual spectacles could enchant any mortal in an instant, even in distress. Short of breath, she barely made out what he said:

“Good evening,.. m' lady... I didn't... ha-ah, expect the meeting... ha-ah to last so long... ha-ah,... and the rain... oh, I'm so sorry.”

All the previous accusations that she thought of melted away. Instead, “That's quite all right. I'm just glad you could come. Would you like some water?” she inquired, smile in her hazel eyes.

The suggestion was instantly carried out, and soon she was leading him to the refreshments. Her pair of white sandals were gentle; her footballs as light as morning dew. The curves of her coral dress gracefully hugged her at the waist.

“You look beautiful,” he said, after his cup of water.

“Why, thank you,” she said with a cheeky smile and a slight blush.

“May I have this dance?” he held out one hand and gentlemanly bowed.

“Why, of course, but I'm not really good at dancing...” she hesitated.

“Me neither,” he whispered as if he was waiting for such a reply.

She took his hand, and was led to the dance floor. For an odd request, the waltz begun. Contrary to his past remarks, he proved a good lead. She caught on quickly with the rhythm and the two were as good as Olympic gold medalists on ice, both with inescapable elegance and unassuming grace. He recalled the first day when he learned to waltz. It was at her grandparents' house.

That house smelled of Yankee candles and rich mahogany. They had read to each other C. S. Lewis, J. R. R. Tolkien, Frances Burnett and Robert Stevenson – sometimes being taken to the world of elves and pirates and sometimes simply enjoying warmly toasted bread and potatoes like Mary, Dickon and Colin in their own secret garden behind the house. After reading and afternoon tea, while the horizon on the front yard riped orange, her grandparents would count “one, two, three” and have the records of Johann Strauss turning on the old-fashioned phono player. The children often waltzed after the old couple, an experience which they regarded as unescapable embarassment, the adults as lovely clumsiness. Those were the days.

Caught up in music and memory, he hardly noticed the song changed. The singer sang of love and confession. He began humming along. Soon it became a serenade and whispers in her ear.

Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime...
Let me lead you from your solitude...
Say you need me with you here, beside you...
Anywhere you go, let me go too –
That's all I ask of you...

She closed her eyes and savoured the fragrance in his voice. What beautiful words that flowed from the singer's lips... And music... She let those beats take a hold of her... Those lips were saying something… and that voice…

The warmth struck her and she remembered no more.


A few years later...


A night in a rural garden of red roses. The only light to be seen for miles is the full moon. Silvery pearl creates gray silluettes on the green, and the blessed shadows an eternal promise.