He had written her this song. All quarter notes and light melodies, his words slipped into the microphone in the intoxicating language of a lover; softly exhaled promises and half-spoken truths. She swayed in time to his tempo, her eyes locked on his, losing herself in the beauty of the moment as it carried her away. Her eyes were blue, an icy shade born of Aryan parentage, intense. He swore to believe everything she’d ever dared to mean to him; his words slid within her eardrums, danced lightly over a psyche and sank through a heart into the depths of a womb, where those promises were entertained by the ears of another. He stepped down from the stage and he kissed her, his lips a tight embrace, evidence of a promise he only dared to make with closed lips. Their tongues danced against their cheeks, and as his hand graced her stomach he could feel the child kick against the cool palm of his outstretched hand. He smiled into her eyes. “No man has ever loved a daughter more.”
“I wonder how you’ll love our son.”