The Wedding Dance
“May I have a dance with you?” He went down on one knee and asked the lady in red.
There were gasps and murmurs from all corners. The lady looked down at him.
They had arrived from the church after solemnising his wedding. After eight years of dating his high school sweetheart, the two were declared man and wife today.
Standing in another corner in all her white bridal finery, his wife looked on. For now, her husband had eyes only for another lady.
He had idolised this lady since childhood. His love for her had only grown as he became a man.
She was the one to introduce him to the world of music and dance. Pursuing them at first to impress her, he had taken to them like fish to water until they became his bread and butter. He owed his successful career to this lady. Among other things.
“It might not be a good idea,” the man standing next to the lady’s chair said. Her husband.
“I will not dance with my wife until she dances with me,” he retorted.
They both glanced at the woman they loved. So, did everyone else in the room.
The lady blinked her eyes twice before tapping her right palm on the handrail of her chair.
He swiftly got up from the ground and offered her his hand. He wrapped his other free hand around her shoulders, pulling her up gently.
The lady’s husband joined him. After a laborious minute, the lady stood supported on her two feet.
“Leave her to me now,” the new groom said to the husband. As the latter retreated back, pulling the chair with him, the younger man firmly clasped the lady’s right palm. The once gentle hands were now rough and wrinkled. He guided the lady’s other hand to his shoulders before encircling her waist with his free hand.
“Music,” he said.
The two started to sway their upper bodies to the song’s beat, their feet rooted to the same spot. Others watched in silence as the man helped the lady move around.
The lady’s twisted lips parted slightly, revealing her teeth. A tiny tear trickled out from her left eye.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world, mom,” the man said aloud.
Thunderous applause reverberated across the room.
“I am tired, son,” the lady said after five minutes. No words came out. But he understood.
“Chair, dad,” he called out. His father quickly wheeled the chair forward. Still holding his mother firmly, he gently made her sit on the chair.
“Thank you, mom, for making this day more special. As always,” he said, not attempting to hold back his tears. His wife came forward and held her husband’s hand.
There wasn’t a single dry eye in the room.
The old lady blinked in satisfaction. ‘Adopted blood can never be your own,’ the world had advised. She hadn’t listened. Her son had proved her right. Yet again.
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