WHITE (K)NIGHT

by Kean Ghiero

In bed, wrapped in the darkness of the night, I hug my wife tightly, kiss her and tell her: “Smile, we are dancing”.

She says: “You don’t love me anymore”.

I caress her, whispering: “I do - can’t you see: I am dancing?”

“I can’t hear any music.” she holds dryly.

I murmur softly in her ear: “It’s beautiful - I can hear it in my head - it is our love music. Smile, this is our music, this is our dance. Sometimes it plays a sweet tune... sometimes is bitter… can’t you hear the love music in your head?”

“No!” She asserts firmly.

“No?”  I say with an enquiring tone.

“No!” She claims resolutely. “You killed it last night ignoring me, with your mood and your silence”.

“Sweetheart, so easily…” I tell her softly. “…Nothing can kill my love for you. This is our music and I am dancing with you. If you do not want to dance with me anymore, I will be dancing alone to this music. No one can stop me, not even you, not even if you leave me. I’ll be there in the long line of your new admires with this music in my head.”

“I do love you!” She declares suddenly.

“You do?”

“Yes, I do love you!”

“What do you do to love me?”

“Nothing, I don’t need to do anything to love you. Why, what do you do to love me?”

“I do everything!” I confirm.

“You do… everything?” She empathizes.

“Yes, I even wash my teeth for you, my feet, and my arse! Everything is about you. I am yours. I am not Casanova with lots of whores; I am Romeo and you are Juliette.”

She smiles, adding.  “Anthony and Cleopatra… Robin Hood and Maid Marian...”

“…Yes but, more like the Moor and Desdemona.” I ratify.

She thinks a moment and establishes: “Like King Arthur and Lady Guenivere.”

I shriek: “Wait a moment, then who’s Lancelot?”

She hesitates and retorts with ostentation.
“I meant the story of those two at the beginning.”

“Yes, and then what?” I demand. “Here I am still king Arthur and who’s Lancelot?”  

She retorts stubbornly: “I have told you about my Lancelot before.”

I sigh and begin to get out of bed as she enquires: “Now where are you going? Don’t you want to dance?”

“No!” I screech. “I’m tired. I think I get up and go and write these prose before I forget it.”