The band started again.
Quietly at first.
Clare and David had their first dance.
I watched from the edge of the floor.
Halfway through, Clare whispered something to him.
David smiled.
Then she left her husband standing in the center of the dance floor and walked toward me.
She held out her hand.
“Come on.”
“Absolutely not.”
She laughed.
“You flew military aircraft.”
“Exactly.
Machines with rules.”
“Evelyn.”
“I don’t dance.”
“You did when I was little.”
That memory hit me.
Clare standing on my feet in the living room.
Mom laughing.
Dad still kind enough back then to take photographs.
Before control had swallowed everything.
I took Clare’s hand.
The guests made space.
We danced badly.
Terribly.
Clare stepped on my shoe.
I nearly tripped over her train.
For three minutes, neither of us cared.
That was my small victory.
Not the rank.
Not the salute.
Not Dad’s humiliation.
