We reclined in the front seats of your station wagon with the windows cracked and the rain fell. We waited for the movie to start, tuned into public radio, the coarse voices hushing me to sleep. Between the light rain, frequencies of echoes, and your warm hand in mine, my soul was departing. In and out of sleep I thought, "I could die here," how pleasant and peaceful it was.

The movie was about to begin and you roused me softly, kissing the back of my hand where my knuckles protrude. We rushed from the car to the theatre's entrance, you holding your jacket above us like a floating zeppelin. Regardless of your chivalry, my glasses became speckled with mist. Amongst the filled seats in the theatre, I only see your face illuminated. Heads lean toward each other in the mass auditorium chairs and I've never felt the distance between our bodies so thick.

The lights fade back on, the credits rolled, and I barely remember a scene, asphyxed on our chemistry. When we arrived at your place, on your bed, I took off my boots, making my feet look small. I bent and cracked my toes as I imagined a ballerina would. Then I floated onto the bed next to you with such grace and you were sure I was a ballerina.