Hook, Line & Sinker Blogfest!

Hey all! Long time no post, huh? Haha, anyway, here is my post for Justin's "Hook, Line & Sinker" Blogfest today! =D

<3 Tara


Oh! --- The sound of it. The record checking in the corner and the grain of the music as the orchestra played. A perfect sound; just glorious. The floor skips out from beneath my feet as I twirl around, my partner, a broom in reality, my love in thought, guides me along to the step of the beat. Sinatra’s voice is a dim, lovely whisper in my ear as I drift away.

We’re together again. His smile is sweet, endearing, as he holds me close. Nothing else matters, the war is in the past, and he is home with me. The music guides us, we let it take us. He spins me out and is there to catch me when I return. Laughter surrounds us, fusing with the music; there is not a care in the world anymore. Things are just the way they should have stayed. It is like he never left. As if the war never happened. He did not stop loving me; he is no different from my memory. The merriment in his eyes, the secret in his smile---it is all the same.

We skip, my skirt catching around our legs and we laugh as we sway to catch ourselves. He leans in and pecks a quick kiss on my cheek. The heat rushes to my cheeks and he brushes my hair out of my face before he guides me to the music once more. Yes, it is perfect.

The horns trill on the last note and he twirls me out once more. I stumble on his feet and only just manage to catch myself. I look down, embarrassed, but the straws need no apology. I look up, breath caught in my chest. His face is gone again, the dream is over.

The band, it’s done, the only thing left is the clicking of the point against the center of the vinyl. I lean the broom against the wall and cross the floor to fix it. I flip the record over and reset it for the next side. A knock, heavy on the door, interrupts me. I move into the hall and check the curtain. A tall man stands on the porch. I pull the door open. His dark suit is clean-brushed and he tugs at his cuffs before handing me an envelope. The address on it frightens me. It is not from him, it is from the capitol. Tears collect on my lashes and I look up at the man. He is disgruntled, avoiding my gaze as he clears his throat.

“Madam, it is my deepest regret to inform you that---“

I hear him no more. The letter in my hands is too much. It is heavy, pulling me down, though I remain upright in the doorway. Frozen. Frozen with fear. Fear to acknowledge it. I shake my head, the tears slipping down my cheeks.

Sinatra’s voice is soft again, the record starting up, swirling through the window to the world outside, where I am trapped with a stranger and an iron letter in my hands. A hand touches my arm and I jump. The man before me is finished speaking. He offers me his kerchief and I take it absently. The tears in my eyes don’t bother me. I loved him, after all. He tips his hat, and draws away. The heat of his fingers is gone and I am nothing but a cold shell in the warm sunshine and all I can wonder is what to do next.