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The morning was a warm, sunny one. The sun's beams glowed with an angelic hue that flooded the living room, just as it did to every room in the house, even the bedroom you shared with the woman you were lucky enough to call your wife: Natalia Romanova, or how she prefers being called, Natasha L/N.
You never really knew how or why in God's green earth such a stunning woman grew interested in you, let alone marry you; You weren't complaining, though.
Natasha fell head over heels over you — something that you reciprocated thoroughly — and you couldn't wrap your head around that. Her infatuation grew to such degrees that so far as leaving the bed was a seemingly impossible task. You would always wake up the same way: with your wife wrapped around your torso, head over your shoulder, chest, or buried near your neck, and her arms instinctively tightening their grip upon any slight movement, not wanting to let you go under any circumstance. You always got up the same way too: by having to slowly inch your way out of her arms, all while trying not to wake her up. All that was just so you could get up, now picture when she gets REALLY needy.
After a solid 10 minutes of your escape technique, you successfully freed yourself from the red head's grip without waking her up.
You immediately headed over to the kitchen and prepared your daily routine: Bring all the ingredients over to the kitchen island, turn the stove on, bring the bowls out, and lastly — and what you deemed the most important and necessary of steps — prepared the music. Music was always your escape from reality, your drive, and your go-to comfort mechanism, apart from your bride, obviously.
You scrolled through your infinite galleries and lists of songs until finally reaching the one you had desired. Natasha had introduced you to the artist a fair amount of years back in the first few months of your relationship, and ever since, you've grown very fond of his music. His words, the meaning behind every lyric, the atmosphere of them, and the message they all convey left you in addiction to said artist's songs; It was none other than Leonard Cohen.
Once you found the song, you pressed the play button and immediately went on to preparing Natasha's favorite breakfast: Pancakes. YOUR pancakes, to be exact.
As you began preparing the mix, you heard attentively to the piano quietly playing in the back of the kitchen.
The beat was instantly followed by the chorus you've heard a dozen times before, and at last, the vocalist.
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin...
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in...
Lift me like an olive branch, be my homeward dove...
And dance me to the end of love...
Yeah, dance me to the end of love...
You hummed to Leonard's voice, entranced by it. You prepared the meal almost robotically since it had become a weekly tradition for years now.
Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone...
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon...
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of...
And dance me to the end of love...
Dance me to the end of love...
The violins came along, and now your body swayed to the rhythm. Natasha waking up would be inevitable, with the smell of the pancakes, the sound of the music, not to mention the fact that she was a spy, hence, she could pick up the most minuscular of details, even asleep. But you couldn't care less. In fact, her presence would only make the moment much more heavenly.
Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on...
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long...
We're both of us beneath our love, both of us above...
And dance me to the end of love...
Yeah, dance me to the end of love...
Without even realizing it, the food was already halfway done, with Nat's share already placed neatly on the ceramic plate. The syrup dripped from the sides of it, and the strawberries at the top made a simple, but ridiculously tasty decoration.
This song reminded you of Natasha in every aspect, it was played at your wedding, after all. But it wasn't just that, it was the significance and meaning behind it that reminded you of the redhead.
It meant the beauty of being the consummation of life, the end of this existence, and of the passionate element in that consummation. The lyrics are in the same language you use to surrender to your beloved, yet it is not important that anyone knows the genesis of it, because if the language comes from that passionate resource, it will be able to embrace all passionate activity.
It holds a strong, religious interpretation of peace and understanding, as a basis to show that love has no true end. You are the olive branch carried by the dove, her. It indicates the perfect, harmonious combination and your dependence as the leader of the path "to the end of love".
The metaphor of Babylon takes various liberties upon it. You take the metaphor of the physical love for which you both yearn from one another and thus, the object of the song becomes a lot more seductive.
It is a lyrical tribute to the miracle of love, the grace that bestows on you, and its healing, restorative power.
Love over time has its up and downs. The importance of it, to you, is how as long as the two of you withstand the challenges together, the love will too withstand and persevere.
As you analyzed and reminisced the lyrics for the billionth time, you felt a pair of small, delicate hands wrap around your body and press onto your chest, below your shirt. You almost jumped out of your skin, but settled down, remembering who it was behind you.
"What'cha doing?"
God, that morning voice. You'll never get sick of it.
"Hello, Любовь моя (my love), did you sleep well?" you inquired, tilting your head slightly to the left, so you could see the head of your wife resting in your shoulders.
She wore one of your hoodies, with the hood covering her head, yet strands of crimson hair stick out from it.
She flashed her trademark, pearly white smile at you, with a remnant of drowsiness still present in her face.
"I did, but I'd sleep better still in your arms."
You made an airy chuckle at her comment, before turning back to finishing up your half of the food. Natasha was too engrossed in your presence to even notice the food you left on the counter next to her.
The music continued, and you two now began to softly sing it, swaying to its rhythm.
"Dance me to the children who are asking to be born..."
"Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn..."
"Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn..."
"And dance me to the end of love... "
These were the song's most cynical and bitter-sweet lines. It made a very direct link to your wife's incapability of bearing any children. It was a moment that, once confessed, let a stream of endless tears run down both of your faces — all the while you comforted her. Eventually, you had both come to terms with it and now embraced it as a part of her, and no longer a defect.
It, too, held a metaphor for the late years — the threads that tie you to life and reality are being torn by imminent death, but they are still sheltered by the love you have.
You smiled at the moment: Making a classic breakfast, with your wife snuggled to you, and your favorite song resonating through the walls.
The final stanza came up, and you sang along to it too, caught in the sheer emotion from the beautiful scenery.
"Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin... "
"Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in..."
"Touch me with your naked hand, touch me with your glove..."
"Dance me to the end of love..."
"Dance me to the end of love..."
"Dance me to the end of love..."
The song ended relished with intimacy and submission to love. An emotion you were once a stranger to, yet now get to experience every day of your life alongside the woman you called your wife.
After a long instrumental, the song began growing quiet, before coming to a complete halt. You had finished the food and placed it onto a dish. Now, there you both stood. Motionless, quiet, and in a trance you couldn't dare to break out of.
You turned and faced your wife with a warm smile that she reciprocated in an instant. You leaned toward her and so did she, before joining your lips in a kiss.
She became putty in your arms, her whole body growing looser so that she could pour all of her attention into this simple act of affection.
The sparks from your first kiss nigh on ten years ago never left, in fact, they had the same strength as from that day.
Your lips lingered on hers for a while, before parting with a smile.
She basked in the warmth of your body while you did in hers for a brief moment. Another song began playing from your playlist, and the two of you reacted on instinct. You placed a gentle, yet firm grasp on her hip and tangled your fingers with her other hand. She did so too, yet her free hand was on your shoulder.
You began swaying carelessly to the music.
God, how did you get so lucky?
You swayed with your wife, eyes gazing at each other with profound love and admiration. You pressed your forehead against Natasha's, admiring the moment. You disregarded the breakfast once you made it to the living room connected to your kitchen, now moving freely across the carpeted floor.
You were dancing to the end of love.
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