It’s only the knees and the fierce red dress I remember. Walking back into the party, after you said I should go first and you’d wait a while. You never gave me your name, and your face is long forgotten, but those knees… If I ever saw them again, I would know they belonged to you.
You chose me. We exchanged some looks across the dance floor, and I certainly thought you looked cute, but it was you that chose. You pulled me aside, whispered in my ear I should meet you outside, and went ahead. I remember standing there, not sure what to do. But you seemed so confident, you really did not give me a choice. You chose, and I remember a fiery curiosity that I could only extinguish by following you.
I remember walking back into the dancing crowd. I remember the glowing. The blushing. I remember standing at the bar, with a stupid grin on my face, watching the door that you would soon open to walk in. I remember a sense of panic as you didn’t show up. And when you finally did, I only saw your knees. Those beautiful knees, matching the colour of your spotless red dress. A testament to your skill and to your dedication; you never spilled a drop.
I kept my eyes on you that night, but you never looked back. And at a sparse moment I wasn’t looking, you left. Never again would we meet, and I think that was yet another choice you made for the both of us. My only memory those red, bruised knees under a bright red dress, and the itchy sensation of my chafed knees as the rough fabric of my jeans moved up and down on every step I took.
I am glad you chose me that night.