Gasping with mirth, she screamed and giggled as he, again and again, almost, but did not fall. Inevitably, commanded by weakening knees, he slowed into a series of sad stances and silly shuffles so she could selfwrap into her own slow whirls, soft steps, and shifting reveries he fretted could never be as sweet as he so helplessly hoped. And, cautiously with but one eye at a time, he'd try to watch her as if there were some singular way to observe without disturbing while, just as carefully, she’d constantly reassure herself his attention was there but not overbearing.

After a while, he’d make his way back to his chair and pretend to sleep. When her list finally played out, she’d gently pretend to wake him. And as she perched on his lap his music would already be playing.