The last flame sparked into life, joining the dance of its seven brothers and sisters. The musky air held traces of vanilla and soft, romantic music from the city's popular light rock station. He would have done better if he had thought about it before. But he had not been able to contain many thoughts in his head along with the one of her and tonight. He glanced toward the closed restroom door. She was beyond it, doing whatever young women did before events such as this one. When they would be together, truly. At last.

Dustin meandered to the bureau, unsuccessfully convincing himself he wasn't a bit nervous. He'd removed his cuff links, his baby blue ascot. Her dressed matched the shade perfectly. She knew what blue did to the greys of her eyes, to him. Would she be wearing it when she finally allowed him her presence? Would he be overdressed?

Better to be cautious, he thought, sliding a stem of champagne closer to the bucket. He'd poured it too soon. It would be warm the time she was through. He wanted things to be perfect. Should he dump the champagne in the bucket and start anew? Turn on the TV? No, the TV would be rude. Dustin stuffed his hands in his pockets and paced, watching the candles, the ice sweat from the bucket, the air from the hotel cooler struggle to move the closed, heavy drapes. His breath hitched every time he looked at the bed.

The door opened, easing - increasing? - his apprehension. She had been gone for nearly an hour but the only state of her unchanged was her hair. Chestnut and gently curled, it swelled about her shoulders, unconfined from its previously pinned prison. Dustin quelled the urge to touch it. He was aware the recent passage of time could mean she'd changed her mind, and she was precious enough for him to allow her to.

"I poured the champagne," he said hopefully.

Her eyes flicked to it. She had already consumed a wine cooler on the way. For this, she wanted sobriety. Placing her clutch on the bureau, she approached him. "Can we just dance?"

We can do anything that you want to. Dustin wrapped her in his arms. He couldn't technically dance but he could rock to and fro, which sufficed. Her hair smelled like cherries. The dress was satin, the back open, a treacherous area for his perspiring hands. Did he mar her dress or the bare of her skin? He put his hands on her hips. Safely.

"We can go to the party," he found himself saying.

"No." Her senior year, prom. It was her time to be. "This is what I want."

He wanted to know what she meant by 'this'. All of it, including their plans, or just dancing, being alone as they were? He did not know whether to be disappointed or thankful. Confusion was becoming a sleeve he wore often but he did so without complaint.

She glanced up, he glanced down. Freckles splayed beneath her powder. Her lashes were coated and long. The slope of her neck was obscured by her hair. The shadow beneath her neckline was not. Her fingers stroked the hair at his nape, applied pressure.  He acquiesced and bent lower. Lips touched. Her lipstick tasted pink but together, they tasted of strawberry and mint. Her wine cooler, his Certs.

They stayed together beneath his veil of fine hair, jaws in slow motion, the lightly grown hairs above his lip not quite rough against her skin. She pressed into him and his body responded. They stopped. He gazed at her, too much of him in his throat to quite speak.

Somehow, he managed. "We don't have to."

Eons of silence and wide, grey eyes. "I want to," she said, and placed her hands bold on his chest.

The touch burned exquisitely through his shirt. Her kissed her again and her her hands traveled upward, loosening his jacket. Dustin helped it fall to the floor. Her dress had two bra-like clasps, he struggled with one, not with the other. Neither one of them noticed the green link blink on the door. It swung open, and Dustin had just enough wits to press her against him instead of flinging himself across the room and exposing her. He looked at the intruder and thought, ****.

"****," he said.