The Last Dance

The Last Dance

The music was loud in his ears; the large bandstand was filled with musicians. A trumpeter stood, his cheeks red, as he blew a snappy tune. Red, white, and blue, confetti littered the floor, and patriotic streamers hung from every surface. The crowd was giddy. Why shouldn’t they be? It was victory after all.

He walked through the crush of people. His eyes fell only on one fair lady. Her blond hair was cut to shoulder length; her dress was a striking pink. A thin bracelet twirled around her wrist, catching the spotlights from above.

“Shall we dance?” he asked, pushing his way into the crowd around the punch and cookies.

Her smile was breathtaking, all dimples and pearly white teeth and laughing eyes. “My pleasure, soldier.”

They whirled across the temporary dance floor. Her feet skimmed across the ground as light as any fairy princess in silver slippers. His arm fit snugly around her narrow waist. His lips touched the glistening pink temptations. She was perfect; his breath caught as they kissed. He knew this was to be his bride.

****

The orderly lifted the needle from the old, scratched record, stopping the strains of “Midnight Serenade.” Most of the residents had already returned to their rooms. Three wheelchairs were parked along the wall; their occupants had long ago fallen asleep. The orderly touched Mr. Olson’s thin, dry hand.

“Sir, it’s time to go back to your room.” She shook his shoulder when there was no response. “Sir. Mr. Olson.” Nothing. She stared at his immobile chest and felt for a pulse at his neck. The skin was cool, almost cold to the touch. There was no pulse. “Martha!”

The orderly in eggplant scrubs swiveled, her short blond bob swishing as she turned. “What?” Her voice captured the irritation of everyone forced to work late.

“Mr. Olson is dead.”

“Call the doctor.” Martha returned to sweeping up the spilled chips and dropped cups.