memories, unadulterated and capricious, are the best thing in life; he is hers. favourite memory, lingering thought, perpetual longing. what is it about impossible love that consumes the mind? maybe it's worse that she never speaks nor dreams of him. she thinks of him. with deliberate intention, a profound sense of indulgence, and insurmountable fondness. eve, eva, ava — every woman remembers her eden.
ava never blushes. laughing is her way of blushing.
holding her breath, half-smiling, she hopes that he'll defy her, that he'll put an end to whatever she intends to start, but he doesn't, acquiescing instead. what an awful thing it must be to be susceptible to the touch of another.
she wants to tell him a thousand things, here and now, from start to finish, thoroughly, everything that he has missed. a lifetime of dancing and conversations wouldn't be enough to make up for it. not for them. ''you know, life can be so beautiful at times. i guess it all depends on the angle.'' when she says it, she's looking at him, her every emotion seeping through fine veneer. one hand in his, the other on his chest, attuned to his every move, she dances in tandem, swinging her hips in time to his. for a moment, she forgets it all — the mise-en-scène, the people, the music, none of it matters, save for them.
three minutes and forty-four seconds has never been a lot of time. it's not enough, not nearly, but a minute longer would've prompted conversation — and their conversations often had a way of turning into something else.
resilient, resolute, formidable in reputation, larger than life, a dash of red, a living fire, in a continuous struggle with herself, ava knows that she must go. taking a step back, graceful and tender in her retreat, she lets go of his hand when the song is through. ''rome oh, it was such a pleasure to see you again. you can go, and i'll stay,'' she mouths, apropos of nothing, her voice softer than it usually is. '' and maybe the story will play out differently this time.''