Moondance.
A fantabulous night to make romance.
The girl, she dances - and Dougie can’t take his eyes away.
A fairy swathed in the colour of the heavens, she lights up the grass and the trees and the flowers with her invisible glow. Sparkles cling to every fibre of her dress and as she twirls, they litter upon the ground. She’s silhouetted against the pink evening, hair like night, and he knows that if he got close enough her face would be sunshine.
Every pirouette is perfection, and no move needs a reason. The moonlight dribbles down her dress, leaving bleach spots where the leaves do not shade her. But she spins and leaps and twists and the speckled light does not stay in one place; she could be a disco ball, clinging to the branch of her wooden guardian and reflecting radiance in every direction. Her arms reach out as if for a partner, but he does not come and she continues to dance alone.
The grass hushes Dougie as he crawls along the wall in his midnight insomnia, having trekked across the urban and the rural in order to reach the peaceful hill. Upon his arrival here he thought someone had crafted a sculpture beneath the ancient sycamore, yet when the figure raised an arm with the grace of a swooping nightingale, he investigated further. Beneath the cover of August skies he found a figure painted in a million shades of peach, bonding with light like an everlasting, soapy bubble - and now his eyes won’t tear away from her.
And then all of a sudden, the wind drops. The leaves stop singing and the grass stops whispering and the ballerina becomes still. She turns slowly, like a plastic dancer in a jewellery box, the last of her spring unwinding as the Swan Lake playing in Dougie’s head drawls to an end - and then she freezes, looking out from the top of the hill across the fields. Her skirt floats on the breeze and her hair clings to her moondust face, ripples of pink and navy shivering over her cheeks. Her head turns to look straight at the figure clutching his knees against the wall, and the blonde boy is star struck.
She couldn’t be less celestial than a planetarium. Dougie is sure no name on earth would fit her, but it surely would be close to the most precious of the gemstones. The rays from the pearl in the heavens illuminate her features: mercury eyes are framed by a sharp fringe, which grows into soft waves that spill over her shoulders; plump apricot lips form a silent question and her neck expands into an exposed ivory collarbone. His breath is a cork in his throat as her distant pupils focus on him, and he suddenly feels tiny in her presence.
Dancing, again; Dougie doesn’t realise that she’s walking towards him until she’s less than a few metres away. Each step is a glide, a glissade, a grand pas - and suddenly she’s balanced right in front of him, bare toes in the soil. He remembers to breathe, and inhales the floral scent of her. No chemical perfume haunts his nostrils – it’s the smell of freshly cut grass and lavender sprigs and natural honey. He dares to glance up at the face above him, his cheeks rosy and his lips parted and ready to give an explanation if one ever fights its way out of his throat, but he chokes upon the gleam in her eyes and the smile that stretches those fruity lips. She extends an arm to him, her perfect fingers reaching for his, and slowly he grasps the soft palm that fits into his own like a doll’s hand sculpted from white ashes.
And as soon as he’s on his feet the trees are rustling again, the music of the night driving her to fly and him to stumble along behind. His heartstrings play a loud jazz tempo in his ears as he feels only the breeze through his hair and the angel’s grip on his wrist, and he glances up at the stars as if to ask how he found himself here. She’s laughing a melody that cuts out when they’re under the balcony of the tree again, and she twists round and clasps his hand firmly, as if to initialise a tango. Dougie gulps nervously, all jitters and quivers, and she giggles in what could be mischief. A pixie, he defines her as, and the most elegant one at that. It’s as if she can feel his innocence through the rhythm in his wrist, and she takes one small step closer to him, readjusting her smile. She’s so close that he trembles at her breath on his face, snapping the drumsticks that pound his pulse for a few seconds. His tongue flicks over his dry leaf lips and his eyelids float closed, and as she places her other hand on his shoulder, he finds the courage to guide her waist one inch closer to his own.
Slowly, they begin to turn. He dare not open his eyes for fear of waking up, wishing to be entrapped in this silver waltz forever. The glow of the moon is so bright that he is blinded through his eyelids, and he could feel the airy silk beneath his fingers for the rest of his days. These moves are slower than her lone steps, and Dougie is grateful for he knows he cannot dance half as well as this stranger. Once he is sure that the night is not just a dream, a trip, a hallucination, he glances once again upon the nymph in his arms and marvels at her china skin. Her eyelashes reach for the glittery sky and as he gazes, he longs to brush the rose powder settling on her cheeks with his fingers and kiss the tip of her nose with his lips.
Closer and closer they spin and less and less Dougie cares for the absence of his co-ordination, for she has enough for them both. Her earth-marked toes are almost on his shoes as they twirl ever perfectly in the grass, and suddenly she throws her head back and sings another giggle of freedom, whirling out of Dougie’s grip but still clutching onto his fingers. Her arms extended and her bare legs pointed, she’s a dancer frozen in time, perfectly still whilst her partner sways from dizziness. She looks across at the moonlit boy, who bites his lip and holds his breath, and then spins back into him with such choreographed force that he almost loses balance. Her harp of a heartbeat is melodic against his chest and as she raises a thigh against his for balance, he splays a hand over her lower back and leans forward, feeling that this is the most natural thing in the world. Her ribcage is the tide under him, her whole torso expanded over his arm as she leans almost parallel to the ground, but his eyes are only drawn to her ultraviolet irises as she keeps her nose level with his. His breathing is erratic compared to hers, his mouth dry and his senses overwhelmed – and as she reveals a snowy smile and extends her neck right back, he can’t help but to touch her fine collarbone with his lips.
He expects her to wriggle away, push him off, but she does neither. He brings her light figure up with his to stand vertical on the hilltop, her leg still raised against his thigh and their hands still clasped as if immobile in a salsa step. Her glistening pupils are painted with the moonlight and Dougie realises that nothing but laughter has left that mouth since he discovered the girl. He waits to her to speak, for her to shape structured words with her shimmering voice, but instead he receives a far greater treat in the form of the gentlest kiss upon his lips.
And then she is gone; the gemstone, the pixie, the star girl - she’s running away down the hill without him, her skirt rippling in the shine from the ceramic orb above as it shines upon her untainted skin and her vibrantly dark hair. Dougie struggles to capture a breath as he stumbles without her against him, feeling the chilled breeze against his stomach and longing for her to return, longing for just one more moondance. He watches the figure blend into the distorted turquoise colour of the fields and makes a pledge to return the next night, and the next, in the hope he might just have one more encounter, and then another, and then another. For Dougie knows that she just wants a partner to dance with, and he wishes that her partner forever could be him.
A fairy swathed in the colour of the heavens, she lights up the grass and the trees and the flowers with her invisible glow. Sparkles cling to every fibre of her dress and as she twirls, they litter upon the ground. She’s silhouetted against the pink evening, hair like night, and he knows that if he got close enough her face would be sunshine.
Every pirouette is perfection, and no move needs a reason. The moonlight dribbles down her dress, leaving bleach spots where the leaves do not shade her. But she spins and leaps and twists and the speckled light does not stay in one place; she could be a disco ball, clinging to the branch of her wooden guardian and reflecting radiance in every direction. Her arms reach out as if for a partner, but he does not come and she continues to dance alone.
The grass hushes Dougie as he crawls along the wall in his midnight insomnia, having trekked across the urban and the rural in order to reach the peaceful hill. Upon his arrival here he thought someone had crafted a sculpture beneath the ancient sycamore, yet when the figure raised an arm with the grace of a swooping nightingale, he investigated further. Beneath the cover of August skies he found a figure painted in a million shades of peach, bonding with light like an everlasting, soapy bubble - and now his eyes won’t tear away from her.
And then all of a sudden, the wind drops. The leaves stop singing and the grass stops whispering and the ballerina becomes still. She turns slowly, like a plastic dancer in a jewellery box, the last of her spring unwinding as the Swan Lake playing in Dougie’s head drawls to an end - and then she freezes, looking out from the top of the hill across the fields. Her skirt floats on the breeze and her hair clings to her moondust face, ripples of pink and navy shivering over her cheeks. Her head turns to look straight at the figure clutching his knees against the wall, and the blonde boy is star struck.
She couldn’t be less celestial than a planetarium. Dougie is sure no name on earth would fit her, but it surely would be close to the most precious of the gemstones. The rays from the pearl in the heavens illuminate her features: mercury eyes are framed by a sharp fringe, which grows into soft waves that spill over her shoulders; plump apricot lips form a silent question and her neck expands into an exposed ivory collarbone. His breath is a cork in his throat as her distant pupils focus on him, and he suddenly feels tiny in her presence.
Dancing, again; Dougie doesn’t realise that she’s walking towards him until she’s less than a few metres away. Each step is a glide, a glissade, a grand pas - and suddenly she’s balanced right in front of him, bare toes in the soil. He remembers to breathe, and inhales the floral scent of her. No chemical perfume haunts his nostrils – it’s the smell of freshly cut grass and lavender sprigs and natural honey. He dares to glance up at the face above him, his cheeks rosy and his lips parted and ready to give an explanation if one ever fights its way out of his throat, but he chokes upon the gleam in her eyes and the smile that stretches those fruity lips. She extends an arm to him, her perfect fingers reaching for his, and slowly he grasps the soft palm that fits into his own like a doll’s hand sculpted from white ashes.
And as soon as he’s on his feet the trees are rustling again, the music of the night driving her to fly and him to stumble along behind. His heartstrings play a loud jazz tempo in his ears as he feels only the breeze through his hair and the angel’s grip on his wrist, and he glances up at the stars as if to ask how he found himself here. She’s laughing a melody that cuts out when they’re under the balcony of the tree again, and she twists round and clasps his hand firmly, as if to initialise a tango. Dougie gulps nervously, all jitters and quivers, and she giggles in what could be mischief. A pixie, he defines her as, and the most elegant one at that. It’s as if she can feel his innocence through the rhythm in his wrist, and she takes one small step closer to him, readjusting her smile. She’s so close that he trembles at her breath on his face, snapping the drumsticks that pound his pulse for a few seconds. His tongue flicks over his dry leaf lips and his eyelids float closed, and as she places her other hand on his shoulder, he finds the courage to guide her waist one inch closer to his own.
Slowly, they begin to turn. He dare not open his eyes for fear of waking up, wishing to be entrapped in this silver waltz forever. The glow of the moon is so bright that he is blinded through his eyelids, and he could feel the airy silk beneath his fingers for the rest of his days. These moves are slower than her lone steps, and Dougie is grateful for he knows he cannot dance half as well as this stranger. Once he is sure that the night is not just a dream, a trip, a hallucination, he glances once again upon the nymph in his arms and marvels at her china skin. Her eyelashes reach for the glittery sky and as he gazes, he longs to brush the rose powder settling on her cheeks with his fingers and kiss the tip of her nose with his lips.
Closer and closer they spin and less and less Dougie cares for the absence of his co-ordination, for she has enough for them both. Her earth-marked toes are almost on his shoes as they twirl ever perfectly in the grass, and suddenly she throws her head back and sings another giggle of freedom, whirling out of Dougie’s grip but still clutching onto his fingers. Her arms extended and her bare legs pointed, she’s a dancer frozen in time, perfectly still whilst her partner sways from dizziness. She looks across at the moonlit boy, who bites his lip and holds his breath, and then spins back into him with such choreographed force that he almost loses balance. Her harp of a heartbeat is melodic against his chest and as she raises a thigh against his for balance, he splays a hand over her lower back and leans forward, feeling that this is the most natural thing in the world. Her ribcage is the tide under him, her whole torso expanded over his arm as she leans almost parallel to the ground, but his eyes are only drawn to her ultraviolet irises as she keeps her nose level with his. His breathing is erratic compared to hers, his mouth dry and his senses overwhelmed – and as she reveals a snowy smile and extends her neck right back, he can’t help but to touch her fine collarbone with his lips.
He expects her to wriggle away, push him off, but she does neither. He brings her light figure up with his to stand vertical on the hilltop, her leg still raised against his thigh and their hands still clasped as if immobile in a salsa step. Her glistening pupils are painted with the moonlight and Dougie realises that nothing but laughter has left that mouth since he discovered the girl. He waits to her to speak, for her to shape structured words with her shimmering voice, but instead he receives a far greater treat in the form of the gentlest kiss upon his lips.
And then she is gone; the gemstone, the pixie, the star girl - she’s running away down the hill without him, her skirt rippling in the shine from the ceramic orb above as it shines upon her untainted skin and her vibrantly dark hair. Dougie struggles to capture a breath as he stumbles without her against him, feeling the chilled breeze against his stomach and longing for her to return, longing for just one more moondance. He watches the figure blend into the distorted turquoise colour of the fields and makes a pledge to return the next night, and the next, in the hope he might just have one more encounter, and then another, and then another. For Dougie knows that she just wants a partner to dance with, and he wishes that her partner forever could be him.