Flash Fiction: Waltz

He bows in the light and shadows of festival candles.

I laugh. I feel like a draft horse in a dress. He insists.

He’s all lank to my muscle as his hand finds my hip. Our fingers grasp. We sway.

A waltz is not sword fighting.

But both are dances.

I’m in love.



Copyright © 2020 by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.

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