Maybe a Lady
She went out on the verandah to brush her hair. The dancing, and then the conga line, had made it wild and her grandmother's certainty that a lady would never attend to her appearance in public had always stayed with her. Not that she was entirely certain she was a lady.
The night air was cool and when she had finished counting strokes, she took a moment to notice how beautiful the heavens were, and how impossibly glad the moon looked to be exactly where it was.
She turned to go back inside and he was there, suddenly, as tall and mesmerising as ever, with a drink in one hand and his smile as bright as cat's eyes in the darkness. He was watching her and she was suddenly glad of the night's kindness for hiding her blushes.
They started talking; about the wedding, and the strange other guests, about planets and symphonies and languages. About stories and ideas Their words slotted together, like a spoken duet of verbs and nouns and adjectives, made bright by inflection and brighter still by their laughter. Then, there was a silence. It wasn't uncomfortable, like some silences are. It didn't contain embarrassment or worries. It was alert though, like the sly fox in his burrow. It was awake, and electric. If either of them were to say the wrong thing, the moment might break and vanish, with a glimpse of its magnificent brush of a tail, as it slunk out of sight.
She was almost, almost holding her breath. Her thoughts beaming at him vainly, in a world without telepathy, how dearly she wanted him to want her.
He spoke first. He sounded soft, and shy "Do you want me?" He asked her. What a wonderful, simple question.
Her grin lit her up, and she turned on him such a saucy expression that he raised his eyebrows and grinned back at her, at once. The whiskers of the fox glinted in the starlight.
"Oh. Of course" she told him "I'm a human woman, you know, and how could any such creature resist you?"
He laughed, but she cut him off with a kiss.