Nine

That song was on the radio again. He would never tell anyone he liked it, much less that it reminded him of her. The words wrapped around his temples like the tinkling of raindrops.
It was like her eyes; dancing, glistening like a fresh snowfall. It was like the color of her lips... Or her voice; tender, patient, even a little scratchy sometimes. Her hair, a sea of chocolate ribbon-curls, flowing delicately across her pale complexion... But, most of all, it was like her skin. Soft and sweet, every pore beckoning wordlessly. The sparkling piano in the background reminded him of each time he had looked away, moments in which every inch had seemed to welcome his weary hands.
He reached for the knob to turn the station, feeling a fool, but stopped short. In hopes that her image would not fade. She, in that dress she had worn: backless, exposing the freckles on her shoulders, grinning shyly up at him - explaining how she posessed two left feet...
And how light she was! He had hardly felt her standing on his toes as they swept across the room. She laughed. It was--
But then, the song was over...