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"Close your eyes."

I instinctively shut them obediently and listened to the sounds of people arranging and rearranging themselves around us. I heard the rustling movement of skirts swishing around themselves and the muffled tapping of shoes on the floor that I remembered was shining brightly. A hundred smells assailed my nostrils; the smell of the feast just recently devoured, the smell of a hundred sparkling women decked out in their finest, but most distracting was the smell of the man next to me.

To describe that smell is almost as hard as describing the man himself, impossible in the stunning wonder that is this mysterious and complex character beside me. His smell is like the earth after the rain, like woods in spring, like a mountain sharp with pine, like the air that tingles and grows in intensity just before an evening summer storm.

"Take my hand. Just trust me, and everything will be fine." It's funny how he can calm my fears before I express them.

We step out onto the floor; my eyes still shut, his sure and steady steps leading the way. After a few paces he stops and I realign my body with his. Placing his arm around my waist, he whispers into my hair "just follow my lead; you'll do beautifully." And then, we begin to dance.

We've practiced a hundred times before, but never did dancing feel like this. And never before had I danced in blindness. In blind trust I moved in response to him, letting his every step determine mine. I almost got ahead of myself once or twice; almost, but his arms were there to direct me back on course. There, in front of a thousand eyes, I learned blind faith.

It's not about saying I trust him, but about being able to dance beautifully with only the aid of his eyes. It's not about knowing where the steps are taking me, but about the beautiful journey that takes me there. It's not about equality, but about dependence on my leader every moment of it.

Peeking would be out of the question; it would not only spoil the dance, but spoil the lesson as well. As soon as I become dependent on my own eyes again I draw further from my lead and my steps begin to falter. No, as I began this dance, so I will end it; in complete and total trust in this dancing partner of mine (if the word partner can even be used, as he is so far out of my league).

He says very little as we dance. But there is little that needs to be said out loud. In his soft grasp of my hand and firm grip on my waist I feel all that I need to know and it is more than enough. I

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