The Golden Hour Waltz

The city always hums in a key too sharp for my liking, but here, beneath the canopy of amber leaves, the tempo finally slows to a heartbeat. I can feel the dress fluttering against my skin—a soft, pale blue echo of a summer sky that refused to fade.
I didn't tell him I was coming; some things are better left as surprises, like the crackle of a vintage needle finding its groove on an old record. As I walk toward where we always meet, there is a rhythmic cadence to my heels clicking against the pavement—a steady beat that mirrors the anticipation pooling in my chest.
I look back over my shoulder and see him standing there, his silhouette framed by the dying sun. He doesn't speak; he just watches me with an expression that feels like coming home after a long winter. There is something quietly electric in the distance between us—a magnetic pull that tastes of salt air and unspoken promises.
I let my gaze linger, allowing him to see every flicker of doubt and desire across my face before I turn away again, leading him deeper into the golden light. It isn't a chase; it is an invitation. A slow dance in the silence of a Sunday afternoon where the only music playing is the sound of our synchronized breathing.

Editor: Vinyl Record