***
That same afternoon, at home, I opened the cedar box for the last time.
Carefully, I placed the boutonnière next to the bouquet.
For forty years, they had been waiting for each other.
Me too.
The next day, Tori returned to the cafeteria with his backpack bouncing over his shoulders.
He smiled. “They’re together, right?”
“They are,” I whispered.
He watched me closely for a moment.
“My mom said you never danced again.”
“That’s right.”
Tori was thoughtful for a moment. Then he laid out his little hand.
For a long time, I just looked at her.
Afterwards, I took his hand.
She climbed on my shoes.
The music came dimly from the gym, where students rehearsed for the spring concert.
We waved to the rhythm of the music between the empty tables of the cafeteria.
Tori stepped on my foot twice. I laughed so much that I had to stop dancing.
