There was no music.
That was the thing she’d remember later — that there was absolutely no music, just the sound of the kitchen fan and the upstairs neighbor’s television and the occasional car outside, and yet somehow he had pulled her in from the sink and they were swaying.
“What are you doing?” Lena said, not stopping.
“Dancing,” said Marco.
“There’s no song.”
“There’s always a song.” He hummed something — she didn’t recognize it at first, and then she did, and she pressed her face into his shoulder to hide her laugh.
It was the jingle from a mattress commercial. A particularly stupid one they’d both started humming involuntarily after seeing it six times during a weekend spent watching too much television.
“You are the least romantic person I’ve ever met,” she said.
“You’re dancing with me in the kitchen on a Thursday,” he said. “So.”
He had a point.
She settled in closer and he stopped humming and they just swayed, slow and unhurried, her damp hands leaving wet marks on his shirt that neither of them cared about. The fan hummed. The neighbor’s television murmured. A car passed.
Joy, she thought, doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it sneaks in through the kitchen on a Thursday with no music and a mattress jingle, and if you’re not paying attention, you’ll miss it entirely.
She was glad she was paying attention.
“I love you,” she said into his shoulder.
“I love you too.” He dipped her suddenly, perfectly, and she yelped. “And I still think my humming was on key.”
✦ Today’s Reflection
When did you last let yourself be silly with your partner — not performed silliness, but the natural, embarrassing, effortless kind?
Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc 
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