His fingertips brush over her soft belly as she spins, finding time to get to know the curve of her back.
Her hand finds his again and grips tightly, his fingers dwarfing hers.
Neither is as the other expected, yet neither is entirely phased.
Parts of this routine feel rehearsed, whilst some movements simply flow, inspired by the rhythm apparent in the moment, driven by the raw melody of their acute (if not fleeting) honesty.
He sees himself in her eyes, whilst she sees herself only in his bed. Or perhaps it's the other way round. This music is haunting, devouring, and sometimes they forget who is who anymore.
At times she interprets the harmony while he becomes the rhythm, at others they join together to represent the same part of the song- a song that once made him scream in frustration, and her in anticipation.
For once neither is in control. Neither has the upper hand as they spin, lean and pass together in this dance.
There is no one else. There need be no one else in this moment of blissful improvisation.
The spotlight follows them as the passion of the song becomes evident, as he grabs her hand and her waist once more.
When the time comes to take a bow, he's sure there will be applause.