#dancing again

Lucy hears the SportsCenter outro fade into the kitchen as she opens the fridge. There are green onions in here, she knows; she just bought them the other day. They’ve got to be somewhere, but they’re not on the shelf with the other vegetables. Nor are the on the bottom, in the crisper drawer.  

So she stands up, rolling onto her toes to see the top shelf. Then she stretches forward, moving a carton of milk out of the way with her wrist and grabbing a Tupperware of leftover green beans to see if the onions have somehow fallen behind it. Her T-shirt rides up, the air conditioning chilling her skin as she pokes her head further forward.

“Lucy,” she startles when Tim’s voice appears, closer behind her than she’d expected. His hand is warm on her hip, covering the exposed strip right over her hipbone. From the way his fingers flex against her, she knows he felt her jump.

It’s not unusual for him to wander into the kitchen while she’s cooking, but usually he prefers to lean against the counter and “watch her in her element.” But he’s right behind her now, like he’s trying to see over her shoulder or something.  

He can wait another minute for his beer; her soup needs time to simmer.

“Hmm? I’ll be out of your way in just a -”

“Lucy,” he cuts her off, says her name more urgently this time, like there’s something she needs to see right away.

So she turns around, green beans still in her grasp, Tim’s hand dragging across her back, pushing her shirt over his knuckles.  

He doesn’t step back, doesn’t move out of Lucy’s personal space. She stares up at him, craning her neck back so she can see his face, but there’s only fond amusement in his expression.  

“What?”

Tim doesn’t say anything. He just reaches up with his free hand to take the green beans away from her and set them on the counter. He turns the two of them sideways until he can kick a foot out and make sure the fridge is sealed, then takes Lucy’s hand in his and pulls her to the middle of the room.  

The confusion fades, realization dawning as Tim finally takes a step away from her. When their arms are outstretched, he tugs on her hand until she gets the memo and twirls back toward him. Tim catches her by the waist, grinning down at her as she giggles.  

I found a ballet class for adults (a real class! with corrections!), so dancing feels better than it has in ages.

I'm considering getting my harps back out.

My garden is almost ready to plant.

I'm singing to myself sometimes again.

The other night, I had the courage to show my husband one of my favorite recent songs. It is "Streetlight" by Changbin of Stray Kids, and when I showed him the lyrics, he cried. "Is this what you were feeling that whole time?" he said. "Did I make you feel that lonely?"

I was able to assure him that my loneliness wasn't his fault. He worked so hard to be there for me. Depression is just that isolating. I was also able to tell him that the song now means so much more because I DON'T feel like that.

It felt so good.