The stars shone above us as I heard him laugh. He has a
quiet laugh, a laugh full of meaning. Why won’t he be here forever? The moon
gave us a celestial wink as it watched us. Crickets can chirp, but they can’t
sing. I believe that the ugliest worm could become a glistening snake if it
touched a star. Can a dress be made out of moonlight? No, but his clothes are,
his jeans and shirt and shoes. I want to waltz on the pool with him, and he
agrees. He doesn’t know how to waltz, though; he only knows how to tango. I
teach him to waltz, and the surface of the pool turns into a silver mirror, the
stars into dance lights, the moon shedding a single beam upon us. His clothes
turn into something like a tuxedo, but with a more elegant name. My plain skirt
and shirt turn into a ball gown, with the glistening snake as a necklace.
Cinderella dropped her ball and made a crystal cavern, a cricket-chirping concert
hall. The bats and owls swerve around our heads, and as I look into his eyes, I
suddenly know that it’s a dream.
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