Loved.

That mad tinkling of the piano, the two-step rhythm of the drums, the wheeze of maybe a sly harmonica in there; the song is a musical score to a gone time. A time inhabited by clean-shaven gentlemen clasping pretty ladies at the waist and twirling them elegantly around. It’s something to be giddy about. There was a promise whispered there, in the imagined rustle of skirts, the soft, powdered cheek pressed to shoulder. It was a secret thrill for a young girl not yet fully aware of the world, but eager to discover it.

The promise was this: I love you more than life itself.

To be loved like that, wouldn't that be a wonderful thing?