The elderly, pot-bellied dancers do it best. They seem to float, with pressed shirts and pleated trousers. Sometimes they hopscotch or stumble onto the dance floor, behind their still spry woman. But once on the slippery floor gravity seems lifted. Like the burden of their years.
A smile on his face again, eyes twinkling anew. The music, quiet 50’s hits, waltzes, cha cha chas, mazurkas, begins. His wife, just like when they were first in love, keeps on looking straight ahead, counting dance steps, while his gaze shoots back and forth across the dance floor. Do they see how easily he still dances? How handsome he still is? Forever young! He is free!
He tries his rusty Roman lover ways: a wink here, a smile there. During his hip movements he puts up with the pain with a grimace. But his moves still work and he feels twenty again for a while, until the music stops and he is led by his wife to the long dining tables. A dolce or a glass of wine then, as a consolation. For the belly.