Dancing After Dinner

"What are we going to do for our first dance?" I ask him. "This." He says, dancing like he will when he is 92-years-old, his arms moving in all directions like a firework.

"Seriously! We need to figure this out!" I giggle like a tipsy twelve-year-old, sleepily excited to be up late with the grown ups. "Ok, when I say 'go' step forward with your left foot and then to the side with your right. Ok, go."

Beau, my parents’ dog whom we are watching, drops his wet tennis ball at our stumbling bare feet. "Do you think we'll get lonely out here?" I ask. "I was just thinking about how much fun we're having here alone with a dog."

I don't want a television. I want to dance after dinner.