Peace is a goal we all try to achieve. We strive for serenity within ourselves and with those who play a role in our lives.

 

However, the road traveled can be bumpy. We live in a far from perfect world. Our lives can be disrupted, without warning, and we pray for . . .

 

 

Peace And Quiet

 

Peace is like still waters in a shallow pond,

Quiet like the sea of air floating above.

Ripples appear upon the pond’s surface,

As shadowy clouds form overhead.

 

Peace, interrupted as the ripples grow,

Quiet, disturbed by thunderous skies.

A small sailboat afloat rolls from side to side,

As pouring rain hampers smooth sailing.

 

Peace, now a remnant of what had been,

Quiet, a victim of the turbulent storm.

The boat rocks up and down trying to adjust,

As rough waters hamper its quest.

 

Peace, a dream for a future time,

Quiet, a wish to quell society’s turmoil.

Dark skies brighten, opening both minds and hearts,

As the pond’s tranquility emerges once again.

 

Note: Based on the form and tone of the poem, “Love and Friendship” by Emily Bronte.

 

 

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

All through our lives we have dreams of what our future will bring. We work hard to make these dreams a reality.

 

As we enter our senior years, our desire to have a full and complete life remains strong. This becomes clear in . . .

 

 

Our Little Book Of Dreams

 

     I looked out the living room window of my tiny cottage on Wisdom Way in the Whispering Willow Glenn Retirement Community. The name of the street was quite appropriate. I’d been a professor at Jensen and Pierce College for thirty-five years. I taught literature, most of which focused on books written the first part of the twentieth century. It was a sunny day and I hadn’t given much thought to how I’d spend my time. As my mind drifted, the phone rang startling me out of my stupor. I reached over and picked it up off the coffee table. Pressing the talk button, I muttered, “Hello.”

     “Hi Jenny,” Miranda’s voice sung out.

     “God, you sound like you got up on the right side of the bed this morning, Miranda.”

     “It’s a beautiful Tuesday, girl. And I’ve got a great idea I want to share with you.”

     “Okay, I’m listening.”

     “Well, remember what you said last month about wanting something new to do—something that would challenge you and lift you out of your miserable state of boredom?”

     “Uh, I don’t think I phrased it exactly that way. But go on.”

     “How about starting a book club?”

     “A book club!” I shouted. “That’s supposed to lift my spirits? My whole life was a book club. Why on earth would I want to be a part of another one of those?”

     “Calm down, lady. Give me a chance to explain my idea to you. Then, if you don’t like it, you can tell me to stick it where the ‘sun don’t shine.’ But first, hear me out.”

     “All right. I apologize for my response. Maybe I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Go ahead. I’m paying attention now.”

     “Good. Focus on what I have to say, for I’m going to turn your world on its ear.”

     “Enough with the chatter, Miranda. Just spit it out already.”

     “Well, you know how we’ve confided in each other about how our lives haven’t turned out exactly the way we would have liked them to after we retired.”

     “Yes, but what does that have to do with a book club?” The line went silent and then, as if a bomb had exploded, Miranda, gushed . . .

     “We write one!”

     “Just you and me?”

     “No. I thought Janis and Libby might find this exciting, too.”

     “Exciting? So far I’m not excited. So how are you going to get them interested? And you haven’t even told me what this marvelous book is supposed to be about.”

     “I’ll set up a club meeting for Thursday evening at my house at 7:30 pm. Just be there.”

     “Okay. But this better knock my socks off. I have better things to do.”

     “Yeah, like brush your teeth before you go to bed—alone. See you Thursday, girl.”

     Before I could respond, she hung up. My enthusiasm for literature, reading or writing, has waned since I retired ten years ago at age sixty-four. So whatever Miranda has in mind better be good.

     Thursday was a bleak day—no rain, but overcast. I couldn’t get my act together, so I just wandered around the house looking at what needed to be done and then did nothing. Finally, around five, I scrambled some eggs and made some toast. I sat, somewhat forlorn, at the kitchen table hoping tonight would lift my spirits.

     I finished eating, threw on my Sacramento Kings’ sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, and headed out the door to Miranda’s house. Miranda lived two blocks from me. She had the same model cottage as I did, but the floor plan was reversed. I often headed toward the bathroom and ended up in the kitchen. So I just used the sink to go.

     Arriving at her house, I rang the doorbell. As it opened, I saw Miranda standing there with an impish grin on her face. “Hi, girl. You look a sight.”

     “You look great, too. Nice wool sweater. Looks like the moths had a ball remodeling it.”

     “Huh?”

     She bent her head down and scanned the sweater’s front. She looked confused.

     “I don’t see anything,” she gasped. Then a light bulb went on and she giggled, ”You’re just kidding, aren’t you? Come on. Let’s go into the living room. Janis and Libby are already here.”

     As we turned the corner, Libby shouted, “Well look at you—the book lady.”

     “Hello, Libby, Janis.”

     “Hi, Jenny. This evening’s going to be great fun,” Janis chanted.

     “You know something I don’t?” I quipped.

     “Just that we’re going to write a book. Sounds like a wonderful idea. Doesn’t it?” Libby asked.

     “I don’t know. Depends on the kind of book. So Miranda, this was your idea.”

     Miranda stood there staring at us. Then she spun around and left the room. The three of us were dumfounded.

     “What do we do now?” Janis queried.

     Before I could respond, Miranda returned carrying a plastic shopping bag. “Okay. Jenny sit down on the couch with the girls so we can get started.”

     “Get started? What are we going to get started with?”

     “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, woman. You’ll see in just a minute.”

     I sat down and waited with baited breath for the unveiling of what was in the bag. Miranda sat on the leather recliner across from the couch and looked at us, with a smirk on her face.

     “Okay, Miranda, just show us what you have in the bag already,” Libby gushed.

     Miranda opened the bag and reached in. Then she looked up without taking anything out.

     “I’m sixty-seven years old, Miranda. And I’m getting older by the minute. You said this was a book club meeting. If the books are in the bag, just take them out already,” Janis pleaded, frustrated by Miranda’s delaying the inevitable.

     Miranda chuckled. “What would you like me to pull out of the bag?”

     “You’re trying my patience, Miranda. Let’s get this over with,” I moaned.

     “Yes, Libby, you have an answer to my question?”

     I turned and saw Libby anxiously waving her hand. She seemed ready to explode. And then . . .

     “A man,” she screamed. “We’re all single. We all need a man in our lives—a gorgeous hunk.”

     Janis, sounding bewildered, whimpered, “But the bag’s too small.”

     That seemed to reduce our anxiety level, as we all burst out in laughter. “All right, Miranda, we’re ready,” I ordered.

     “Yes, ma’am, your majesty—the ‘Queen of Bookdom,’” she replied. “I think we are ready.”

     Miranda was a psychologist in her former life and I guess this game she was playing did relieve the tension and prepare us for whatever mystery lurked inside the bag. Janis, Libby, and I were now all leaning forward peering at Miranda in anticipation of a handsomely muscled man slithering out of the bag dressed only in a thong.

     “Okay, ladies, sit back, so you don’t fall off the couch when I turn your world upside down. Now let’s begin.”

     She reached into the bag and pulled out a book the size of a typical hardback novel. Holding it up so all of us on the couch could see the title, Our Little Book of Dreams, she opened it to the first page. There, a man in a skimpy bathing suit smiled at us. Well not a man, but a picture of a man.

     “My god!” Libby yelled. “It’s Jack Watterman. He’s almost eighty. But he looks pretty good. I could . . .”

     Before she completed her sentence, Miranda turned the page displaying a second photo of a scantily clad gentleman. “Well, what do you think, girls?”

     There was silence in the room—absolute quiet. Then Janis gasped, “He’s mine. Carlos Garcia. I’ve always wanted him. Look at those abs. What a six-pack! And he’s only seventy-three. I’d die for him.”

     “You’re going to die anyway, so it might as well be for him,” I kidded.

     “”The next one’s for you, Jenny. You’ve had your eye on him ever since he moved into our community two years ago.”

     “You don’t mean, Tom Thame?”

     “Oh, yes I do,” Miranda stated, as she flipped the page to his picture. This good-looking guy, dressed in almost nothing, popped out at us.

     “But how did you know? Was it that obvious?”

     Miranda directed a chorus of three, as they sang, “Yessssssssss.”

     “Well, what about your gent, Miranda? Come on now. Who is he?” I inquired in a mischievous tone.

     Miranda blushed. You’re not going to believe this. She hesitated a moment before putting the top of the page between her fingers and, in slow motion, revealed the next page. She held it up so the three of us on the couch had a full view of a naked . . .

     “Oh, my,” sighed Libby.

     “Well! I never would have guessed,” exclaimed Janis.

     And me. I was at a loss for words. I just sat there with my eyes wide open and tried to catch my breath. Our secret desires exposed, we had indeed produced, if not written, Our Little Book of Dreams.

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Dogs play an important role in our lives. Sometimes they enter our world in strange ways.

 

Although we think we understand them, some of them have their own agenda. Such may be the case in . . .

 

 

Zeke the Sneak

 

     The day had been long and frustrating. I lost a major account at work. I didn’t get home until after ten. Had to eat a sandwich from the vending machine in the employee lounge for dinner. My stomach felt queasy and I was pooped.

     I washed up and changed out of my gray business suit into my beige cotton PJs, without saying a word to my wife, Sue, who sat in bed reading some woman’s magazine, with a tattooed brunette on the cover. Then I crawled in next to her and crashed onto my pillow.

     “So how was your day?” she murmured.

     “Don’t want to talk about it. I’m bushed.” I had no energy left to lift my head, so I blew her a kiss and moaned, “Good night.” I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow. Closing my eyes, I slipped into a peaceful sleep.

     A noise coming from the kitchen interrupted my tranquility. Glancing at the clock on my nightstand, I squinted to see the time on its illuminated digital face—2:45 a.m. 

     Then the sound disappeared. “Maybe one of the dogs went out through the doggie door,” I muttered. But reaching down by my legs, I felt our two small wiener dogs, Ike and Mike, huddled at the bottom of our queen-size bed.

     “Oh well,” I sighed. The noise is gone. Could’ve been my imagination. So thinking nothing more about it, I again drifted into a restful sleep.

     But then, I became uncomfortable. I felt trapped. I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. About twenty minutes had passed. I tried to roll over, but I couldn’t. My legs were pinned against the bed—frozen, paralyzed. I began to struggle; drawing upon what strength I could muster. But nothing happened.

     Thoughts ran through my mind. Am I having a stroke? Why can’t I move? Has something fallen on me? It couldn’t be the dogs. They’re too small and they’re sleeping next to me. And my wife, on top of me? No way! 

     For a few minutes, I lay motionless, making no effort to free myself. But then, I rolled onto my side. All the parts of my body moved with amazing ease. Without a clue as to what had happened, I gave a sigh of relief and went back to sleep.

     In the morning, I awoke to the sounds of barking dogs playing with a toy octopus at the side of the bed. I shook off the night and dragged my body into the bathroom, threw water on my face, brushed my teeth, dressed, and made my way to the kitchen.

     As I ambled into the sunlit eating area, Sue looked at me and asked, “Did you hear the noise last night, Ernie?”

     “Yeah, the one coming from in here. Didn’t think much about it. It didn’t last long.”  

     Sue seemed perplexed. “What are you talking about?” she grumbled.

     “What are you talking about?” I replied, somewhat confused.

     She stared at me. “You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

     “No, I don’t have a clue,” I responded.

     “Last night, about 3:10 a.m., I heard a soft thud on the floor next to your side of the bed. I tried to see what’d happened, but it was too dark. I felt around for you and the dogs and found all of you. I assumed it must have been my imagination or a dream, so I rolled over and went back to sleep.”

     “Huh. You believed something might have been in bed with us?” I queried.

     “I don’t know,” she replied. “Maybe.”

     “But, I felt something on top of me. I couldn’t move my legs. I thought I’d had a stroke. Then I could move again. I didn’t hear or see anything, so I concluded I’d imagined it.”

     Sue had a puzzled expression on her face. “Could we both have imagined the same thing happening?” she asked.

     “Maybe. Oh, I don’t know,” I stammered. “Let’s put it behind us. I don’t think we should be concerned. We could’ve rolled into each other. Then thought we heard something. Who knows? I have to go to work.”

     That evening, when I came home, Sue reclined on the living room couch reading. “How was your day?” I asked.

     She hesitated before replying. “Well, nothing much happened, but . . .”

     “But what?”

     “Eh, I kept hearing the doggie door in the garage open and close. But the dogs didn’t react. They lounged on the couch with me and didn’t move. When I went to check, I didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. So, I guess it was nothing,” she said. “How was your day?”

     “Well, something odd occurred as I left the house this morning.”

     “Yeah, what?”

     “I found the dog treat jar on the counter in the garage open. Some of the treats lay on the counter and one or two had fallen on the floor.”

     “So?”

     “Our dogs aren’t big enough to reach the counter. And I thought I’d put the lid on the jar after I gave each of them a treat last night. Maybe I didn’t tighten it. But they still couldn’t get to it.”

     “That is strange, Ernie.”

     “Let’s not worry about it. I’ll make sure everything in the garage is where it should be before we go to bed tonight and then check things out in the morning.”

     After dinner, we settled in on the couch to watch some TV. I flipped channels, but could find only reruns. Being too tired to do anything else, we watched two old episodes of Criminal Minds and one of Monk. I couldn’t help thinking that I wished I had some of Monk’s insight into crime solving to unravel our mystery.

     After Monk, we decided to turn in for the night. I shut off the TV, secured everything in the garage, and joined Sue in the bedroom.

     Once in bed, Sue and I snuggled up against each other. Soon Ike and Mike joined us to complete the family. All of us now in our usual places, I drifted off to sleep.

     Then my world seemed to be closing in on me. “My legs. My legs. I can’t move my legs,” I murmured. Could my imagination be playing tricks on me again? I tried to see why my legs wouldn’t budge. But in the pitch-black room, I couldn’t see anything.

     Feeling around me, I discovered neither the dogs nor Sue had moved from their resting places. It must be my wild imagination getting the best of me again. Then I heard a very slight plop, like something small and light landing on the floor on my side of the bed.

     I regained the feeling in my legs. I wiggled my toes. I could move. I hustled out of bed and down the hall, turning lights on as I ran. But I saw nothing. What could’ve made the noise? I must be losing my mind. 

     By this time, Sue and Ike and Mike had gotten up and met me in the doorway, as I returned to the bedroom. “I heard something. I swear I heard something,” I moaned.

     “But what, Ernie?” Sue pleaded. “I think you’re going nuts. I didn’t hear anything and the dogs didn’t move from the bed until we heard you in the hallway. You’ve got to pull yourself together.”

     “Oh, maybe I am going crazy,” I shrieked.

     It was now 6:15 a.m. I had no sleep to speak of and had to leave for work in less than an hour. I dragged my tortured body into the shower, dressed, ate breakfast, kissed Sue, petted the dogs, and headed out the door.

     Later in the morning, I sat at my desk at work reliving my ordeal—real or a mere fantasy? The ringing of the phone shocked me back to reality. Picking it up, I heard excited, somewhat labored breathing and then Sue’s voice—about four octaves higher than usual.

     “I know what happened. I know who entered our house. You’re not crazy. Well, at least not completely crazy,” Sue squealed.

     “Okay, so tell me who was in our house? And how did you find out what happened?”

     It took her a couple of seconds to calm down and then came the extraordinary explanation.

     “It was Zeke.”

     “Zeke!” I exclaimed. “Who’s Zeke?”

     “The dog, Zeke.”

     “The dog,” I yelled in frustration. “What dog?”

     “Well, I’d been cleaning the garage. You know, sweeping and mopping. When right in front of me, this mouse appeared. And you know how I hate mice. So I screamed at the top of my lungs, ‘Eeeeeeek!!!!!’ And in he ran.”

     “Who ran in?”

     “Zeke ran in. He came through the doggie door in the garage. He grabbed the creature by the tail and shook it against the wall until it . . . uh, died.”

     “Where is he now”

     “Don’t know. He left the same way he came in. Took the mouse with him.”

     “How do you know his name is Zeke?”

     “Well, when I yelled, ‘eek,’ he came running. Eek couldn’t be his name, so it must be Zeke.”

     By this time, all I could do was shake my head at her unbelievable logic.

     That night, I prepared for bed, set up a small nightlight, and crawled in next to Sue. Our eyes met. I said, “Good night. Get some rest. You’ve had an incredible day.”

     “I’m exhausted, but happy,” she sighed. “I discovered Zeke. . . . What’s the nightlight for?”

     “Well, if he comes back, I want to meet him.”

     I placed my head on the pillow, and made believe I was sleeping. About an hour passed. Then I heard soft footsteps coming down the hall. A shaggy dog of about forty pounds entered the bedroom and jumped up on the bed with great finesse. He crept onto my legs with movements so delicate and silent that neither Sue nor Ike or Mike reacted to his presence.

     With my legs now pinned to the mattress, I couldn’t move. But this time, I felt no panic or distress. All I could think of was Zeke, Sue’s hero. I closed my eyes and drifted into a serene slumber.

     When I awoke in the morning, Zeke was gone. I had no idea where he went or, for that matter, where he’d come from. I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

     Just as Sue and I sat down for breakfast, the doorbell rang. I looked at her and stated, “It’s only 7 o’clock. I wonder who that can be at this hour.”

     “Well, are you going to answer it?” she asked.

     “Guess so. One of us has to.” I got up and shuffled toward the front door. I turned the knob and opened it. Standing before me was a tall, bearded man, wearing a navy blue suit and light blue and white-stripped tie. Not exactly what I’d expected at this early hour.

     “May I help you?” I inquired.

     “No, but maybe I can help you.”

     “Are you selling something?”

     “Oh, no. Nothing like that.”

     “Then what?”

     “Let me introduce myself. I’m Dr. Aaron Chambers, a cardiac surgeon at St. Mary’s Hospital. I also live just around the corner from you.”

     “Okay, I’m Ernie Warren, and I live here with my wife Sue.”

     “Nice to meet you, sir.”

     This was weird. What the hell does this polite, but somewhat strange man want? I thought. I just stared at him.

     “You must be wondering why I’m here.”

     “Well, yes.”

     “Last night while I lay in bed reading, my dog slid off the bed and headed out of the room. Then I heard my garage door going up. My god, I thought, He must’ve pressed the garage door opener. In my pajamas, I rushed down the hallway to the garage, jumped into my car, and followed him to this house—your house. He slipped through the open fence gate and disappeared. I wasn’t worried about him hurting anybody. He’s a therapy dog—spends most days at the hospital with patients recovering from surgery. He’s warm and caring.”

     “Why didn’t you ring our bell then?”

     “It seemed like it was too late. And I was in my pajamas. So I decided to wait until morning.”

     “You know, last night was the third night he came to our house. And he visited the other day, too.”

     “I had no idea.”

     “By the way, what’s your dog’s name?”

     “’Dr. Ezekiel.’ But I call him Zeke.”

     I stood there with my mouth wide open. Sue’s unbelievable logic indeed had become believable.

    

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Have you ever done something, but were unable to find out what had happened as a result of your actions? And the unanswered questions from this episode seem to linger in your mind.

 

However, life goes on. You are successful and happy. But then, one day . . .

 

 

What Goes Around, Comes Around

 

“Hello. Yes, this is the Psych Hotline. How can I help you?” No response, just sobbing on the other end of the line. “Ma’am, please try to calm down. I need to understand your problem before I can be of assistance.”

 

The line went silent for a few seconds. Then I heard gasping, followed by short, deep breaths. “Huh, huh, . . . he did it to me.” More gasping. “Huh, huh, . . . I can’t handle it anymore. I won’t survive if this continues. Huh . . . huh, . . .” Silence.

 

“Ma’am, ma’am, are you still with me? No reply, just heavy breathing. “Ma’am, try to relax. I want to help you.” Smack, crash, . . . bang, bang . . . “Oh my god! Gunshots!” Then nothing. The line went dead. Now what do I do?

 

Just twenty-three at the time of the call, it was a hell of a way to begin my Marriage and Family Therapist internship. The police tried to trace the call, but with no success. It took me months to recover from the incident, during which time answering the hotline made me very anxious. Fortunately, responding to phone calls was just a small part of my training.

 

Working one-on-one with clients filled most of my time. After completing my internship, I received my Masters Degree in Counseling from Southwestern University and my Marriage and Family Therapist License. While teaching part-time, I started what later became a very successful marriage and family counseling practice in Southern California.

 

Thirty-three years have passed since that frightening phone call. I have not been able to get it out of my mind. And what makes it worse is that I never found out what happened. I scanned newspapers and the Internet for murders and domestic violence incidents the night of the call and the next few weeks that followed, but discovered nothing.

 

Thankful what I experienced that evening had not occurred again, I moved on with my life. I get great pleasure from helping my clients address the problems they face and am very successful in assisting them in surmounting life’s hurdles.

 

Now, there have been bumps in the road I traveled. Like the man who threatened to strangle me unless I stopped seeing his wife. He accused me of having weekly sex sessions with her. He wondered why she had to pay for sex when she could get it at home for free. I said to him, “You get what you pay for. And I provide a quality product.” Well, no, I didn’t say that, but I wanted to.

 

I finally convinced him I was helping her to understand why she felt uncomfortable in her marriage and that I had no interest in a sexual relationship with her. But this happened only after he screamed, “Don’t you find her attractive?” Not wanting to go down that road, I told him I was glad he did.

 

Aside from this slight diversion, my practice is thriving and I live a comfortable life. I even have been able to make time to give something back to the community my wife and I have enjoyed living in for over twenty-five years. I volunteer Tuesday evenings at the Gardnerville Emergency Hotline Center. Doing this has brought back memories—most good, but at least one, I felt was better not remembered.

 

In my current hotline role, one Tuesday night, the phone rang. “Hello. Yes, this is the Emergency Hotline. How can I help you?” No response, just sobbing on the other end of the line. “Ma’am, please try to calm down. I need to understand your problem before I can be of assistance.”

 

Still crying, the woman on the line yelled, “I did it! I had to do it! My life was a living hell. He tried to kill me thirty-three years ago. But his gun misfired. He’s held me captive all these years. I couldn’t take it any longer. So, I did it!”

 

“Did what?” I asked. Silence, then the sobbing became louder. “Ma’am, calm down. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what happened. Still no response. And then like a storm coming out of a turbulent sky, she screeched . . .

 

“You couldn’t help me then! What makes you think you can help me now?”

 

Taken aback by this remark, I was at a loss for words. When I finally pulled myself together and was about to speak, the phone went . . . click. In total shock, I began to tremble uncontrollably, as my past and present collided.

 

 

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

 

Might you have to give up too much to get what you want? Yet you dream of what life could be like with her.

 

But is she real? Consider . . .

 

Dancing With The Devil

 

"Dance with me," she said. I managed to stammer, "Yes," stunned by               

     this beautiful woman dressed in black velour.

The music played, “Dancing With the Devil,” and we became the center

     of attention on the dance floor.  

 

The rain beat on the roof. The dogs barked in the backyard. My

     dream interrupted, a frown formed on my face.

Sad, I rolled out of bed, threw on some soiled clothes, and ambled down 

     the hallway toward the kitchen, with Little Grace.

 

Where Grace had come from, I did not know. She was swift and silent

     and appeared under foot when least expected.

I stumbled to my left and then my right, hitting one wall and then the other, 

     by each my body rejected.

 

Each dance move no better than the preceding one, it amazed me how I was

     able to remain upright.

Entering the kitchen, I spun around, then planted my feet, without tipping over.

     It was quite a sight.

 

Regaining my composure, I stared at a woman standing before me, with 

     Little Grace, tail wagging, by her side.

“Well,” she gushed, “That was quite an entrance you made—one ‘hell’ of

     a funky ride.”

 

Her beauty, beyond anything I had ever seen, intrigued me. Her smile made

     my heart flutter. My tongue became tied.

Seductive, in ways I could not have imagined, this lady from my dream had

     me mystified.

 

Then, without warning, Big Burt came rumbling through the doggy door,

     jumping on me with amazing force.

I lost my balance and began to fall, first grabbing for a chair and then the 

     kitchen wall. For stability, I was at a loss.

 

The fascinating intruder who had entered my life, giggled, as she watched me

     in the throes of another ungraceful fray.

I cursed, under my breath, “Why the devil was my chance for romance 

     being upended in such a demeaning way?”

 

The magic of her ways enthralled me. She fluttered her black eyelashes and

     gave me a wink. My heart palpitated out of control.

Softly, her voice sung out to me, “Come close. Hold me. Let me embrace both

     your heart and soul.”

 

“Dance with me,” she said. I managed to stammer, "Yes," stunned by

     this beautiful woman dressed in black velour. 

The music played “Dancing With the Devil,” and we became the center

     of attention on the dance floor.  

 

 

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.