Out dancing I went again. With him. The barely a man with the old soul.
He lights me up. Brings my smile. Somehow just being in his company is healing for me. Latin music. So he spun me round, spun himself round, I spent some time in his arms, followed his awkward lead, laughed at his antics. Laid my hands on his body. Light caresses, but lingering. I could feel the slight softness of his body under my hands. He is strong, but not chiselled, soft, like his heart, I think. It was hard to stop touching him, once I had started. Once I knew that he permitted my little explorations.
I didn't want more. I'm the protector here, not a prospective lover. He is one who I would paint, if I had a way with a brush and an eye for colour. Our difference in age allows this mild flirtation, without it being interpreted as anything more. I can't help but admire him, his silliness, his disregard for social norms. He is so fearless. So bright. And we moved well together. Because when I dance, I too am carefree.
Just thinking of it makes me flushed.
Touchy feely woman I am.
PS. But what endeared me the most that night was that he ate my leftover dinner. And it was tofu.