The music slows.
Wrapping his arm round my waist, he spreads his palm across my left shoulder blade and his other hand enfolds mine. Like scaffolding he supports me.
Our foreheads touch. Letting go of the breath I’ve been holding since the first chord, I start to move.
We step and sway to the slow rhythm.
Championed by the strength of his arms, the warmth of his hands and the smell of mint, I concentrate on not treading on his feet.
Only for a few minutes, but in that time, we are an island.
The music stops.
He sails away.