Page 69 of Never Quite Gone

We moved together as if we'd never forgotten how, my hands finding their places without conscious thought. Other couples danced nearby, their presence creating a strange privacy in plain sight. Alex held me like I was something precious, something that might disappear if held too tight. His careful respect for my boundaries made them feel less like walls and more like bridges waiting to be crossed.

My hands remembered this too – the way we fit together, the gentle sway, the quiet certainty of belonging. But it wasn't just memory. This was new too, different from Paris jazz clubs or Renaissance ballrooms or ancient temple celebrations. This was us now, learning each other again in this particular present.

Neither of us spoke about why this felt so natural, why our bodies knew each other's rhythms without learning them. The music wrapped around us like a living thing, creating a bubble where past and present blurred into something timeless. Somewhere between one song and the next, I noticed tears in Alex's eyes but pretended not to see them, understanding that some moments were too fragile for acknowledgment.

My own hands shook slightly where they rested on his shoulders, but for once it wasn't from remembered lives or suppressed grief. It was from now, from the overwhelming reality of this connection that felt both ancient and brand new.

“I remember the piano,” I said quietly, the confession feeling safer in our shared space. “Not just the memory of playing it, but how it felt. The weight of the keys, the way the action changed depending on the humidity. The scratch in the ivory on middle C.”

Alex's hand tightened slightly on my waist, but his voice stayed gentle. “You were magnificent. Are magnificent. Every life, every version of you – you find ways to create beauty, to heal, to make the world better just bybeing in it.”

“Even now?” I couldn't help asking. “Even when I'm still wearing another man's ring?”

“Especially now.” His smile held no jealousy, only understanding. “Because you're learning that love doesn't divide, it multiplies. That your heart is big enough for both memory and possibility.”

We danced in comfortable silence after that, letting the music say what words couldn't. My head found its way to his shoulder without conscious decision, and his cheek rested against my hair like it had done a thousand times before. Like it was doing for the first time now.

The quartet played something that would have been at home in Le Chat Noir, and for a moment I felt that double-vision again – past and present overlapping like double-exposed film. But this time I didn't fight it. Let myself exist in both spaces, both times, both versions of this love that felt older than memory but new as morning.

“I used to watch you play,” Alex murmured, his voice carrying under the music. “Every night, pretending I was just another patron who appreciated good jazz. But we both knew better, didn't we? Even then, even when we were trying so hard not to remember.”

“Why didn't you ever say anything?” I asked, though I knew the answer even as the words left my mouth.

“For the same reason you never asked my name, though you wrote songs for me every night.” His hand moved in slow circles on my back, grounding me in this moment even as we talked about another.

The music shifted again, something slower and sweeter. Other couples had drifted away, leaving us alone on the small dance floor. My hands had stopped shaking, I realized distantly. For the first time in longer than I could remember, they felt completely steady.

The quartet started their final number – something slow and sweet that made time feel liquid, endless. Alex drew me closerwithout pushing, letting me set the pace. My head found its way to his shoulder naturally, our hearts beating in time with the music. It should have felt wrong. Should have felt like betraying Michael's memory. Instead, it felt like remembering how to breathe after holding my breath for years.

“Tell me something real,” I murmured against his collar. “Something from right now, not then.”

His chuckle vibrated through both our bodies. “Marcus tried to teach me to dance last week. Said if I was going to drag him into this romantic nonsense, I should at least not step on anyone's toes.”

“How did that go?”

“Three broken vases and one very indignant cat later, he declared me a lost cause.” Alex's hand moved in slow circles on my back. “Though I notice you haven't complained about my technique.”

“Maybe you just needed the right partner.”

The words slipped out before I could overthink them, but Alex's pleased hum made me glad I'd said them. We swayed together as the saxophone wove gold through the air around us, neither feeling the need to fill the silence with words.

I found myself noticing small details – the way his aftershave mixed with the leather of his jacket, how his thumb traced absent patterns where it rested on my waist, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under my cheek. Not memories, just moments. Just now.

After a while, the song drew to a close, but neither of us moved to separate. The quartet began packing up their instruments, the gentle chaos of ending another night at the club swirling around us. But in our corner of the dance floor, time felt softer somehow. More forgiving.

“We should probably go,” Alex said eventually, though he made no move to step away. “Before they start stacking chairs around us.”

“Probably,” I agreed, equally reluctant to break the moment.

Outside, the city hummed with late-night energy – cars passing, distant sirens, the eternal rhythm of Manhattan after dark. But we lingered in the club's doorway, neither wanting to let the evening end just yet. The autumn air felt crisp after the warmth inside, carrying hints of woodsmoke and possibility.

“Thank you,” I said softly, meaning more than the dance, more than the music. Meaning everything he'd given me tonight – space to just be, moments unmarked by memory or expectation, the chance to remember how joy felt.

Alex's smile held warmth that had nothing to do with past lives and everything to do with right now. Time stretched between us, heavy with things unsaid but not unfelt. The streetlight painted shadows across his face, making him look both familiar and new.

My rational mind – the part that had gotten me through medical school and surgical residency, through losing Michael and rebuilding some semblance of life after – knew all the reasons I shouldn't do what I was about to do.

I kissed him anyway.

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