tiny dancer

When I met him, he loved to dance.
Slowly but surely as time passed, he became more reserved - more mature, more controlled and we've stopped dancing. "You have five slow dances", he'll say before weddings and ultimately - he ends up watching me from his table, with a smug smile... as I dance with kids or friends or myself.
I never imagined I'd be in this place - peering over the balcony... watching him, my husband dance with abandon. I feel like a voyeur, slightly entitled to be studying his moves and busting in on an intimate moment that does not belong to me. I didn't really mean to find them, my eyes were scanning the beach... but their figures were unmistakable and now I'm enraptured, my eyes are transfixed and I cannot look away.
The lines of his body are so familiar to me. I know those strong arms, the legs that were always more steady and graceful than mine. The eyes fastened on the one that he adores. If I'm honest, these moves are even more exaggerated and excited that those that I've seen. He's lifting, dipping, twirling... not moving haphazardly, but with all the intentionality and purpose that he possesses in every act of his life.
His partner knows this too. They feel safe, and free to experience the wash of the wind in their hair because he is holding them safe.
So there I am, three stories up, watching my husband and son jump the waves and twirl in the sand. My loves are out there, dancing with one another, utterly oblivious to my watching eyes.