You had been making pizza in the kitchen with your husband, John. He was off deployment for a week or so. As you rolled out the dough, he was scavenging through the cabinets, looking for the sauce. Sweet melodies of jazz buzzed in the background of the pizza making, making you sway your hips.

He found the sauce and turned back around, a grin tuning his lips upward as he witnessed you swaying your hips to the music. "Pretty girl, you're horrible at dancing."