Dancing.
She'd had a passion for it as a child, a sort of passion that sprouted upwards from places unknown.
Her mother was a nurse, her father was a fireman; to have a dancer in the family would have been odd (but the universe made sure to fix that little bit of oddness by taking away the person who took care of people).
So when she stops in the middle of the street, the world around her complexly gone for a second; she's surprised to find that the long clipped strings of her heart, or so she thought; begin to tug at the light gray grainy photographs in the window; she's trapped by them, up until the moment when her consultant bumps into her, but even still she remains trapped, a layer of her cage has just been removes.
Her gaze doesn't slip from the photos despite the newfound clarity, even as Jane begins to speak; laughing at first, a sound that which quickly dies in favor of her name, confused and startled as it tumbles from his lips.
But instead, she hears something else entirely; her mother's soft chuckle, the ripe gentle noise, followed by her father's voice – when it hadn't been destroyed by days, months and years of drinking; rich and full, deep and clear; she hears her parents banter, and the way they tease her with love and affection as she stumbles in the sharp green grass of their backyard; which is still damp with morning dew, or what could have been casted off drops from the hose her mother occasionally used to water the flowers.
The light pressing against her neck and face suddenly become that of nearly thirty years ago, and as the moments begin to flick by, as though she's looking through a photo album, she gets the taste of peach in her mouth, remembers vaguely of how it had felt underneath her fingertips.
And as she flicks through, about maybe the five or maybe ten last pages of her photo album a new picture – a new memory is added, Jane's fingertips brushing by hers, and then intertwining; a completely diverse feeling up a peach, but it still holds close to the same affect.
The affect being the feeling of comfort – home, that surrounds her, and as he strokes the back of her hand with his thumb the old feeling slowly melts away, like a thin blanket being pulled back; or for once, slowly waking from sleep instead of being abruptly woken by a noise or shout, or a dream.
She shuts the book and tucks it away, and the sun on her neck feels fresh, clean; pure. More importantly, new.
She turns to look at him, a little surprised; but not by much, given how she's use to these looks, to what others would label as impassive, she labels as a man filled to the brim with love; and that's all she sees on his face.
She says nothing; and he does the same, eventually squeezing her hand and continuing down the street, with her by his side; they go hand in hand.
Photos used in the cover photo are copy right to Christine Rocas and Abigail Simon, titled as Joffrey Ballet.