(a prose poem)
A couple dances beneath the moon.
There was once a story, handed down from generation to generation, of a warted and wet-skinned toad, who, upon being touched by the lips of a beautiful young girl, morphed into a prince.
These people are those people.
She is yellow-haired and ivory-skinned with sapphire eyes and cheeks as pink as cotton candy and he is now tall and dark and handsome.
Though he has lost his warts and wet skin, he still occasionally ribbits at the most inappropriate times, such as when they dine with her father and wicked stepmother. The sound escapes him and he glances at his fork, wondering why he is using silverware and eating roast pork instead of just snapping his tongue out to catch a fly. Meanwhile, she, his savior turned wife, the breaker of curses and washer of dishes, apologizes for his rudeness.
She adores him because in marrying her, he made her a princess. She adores him because she has always been hell-bent on getting a happily ever after and he gave her this, which is close enough. He reciprocates her adoration because she sped up his evolution, transforming him from a frog to a man in two seconds flat.
And he does not kid himself: her feather bed is much softer than his lily pad ever was.
And, now, they dance beneath the moon. More often than not, they waltz. If she’s in the mood, they cha-cha. Sometimes, they just sway in the pale light.
“Stop dancing beneath me.” the moon says night after night.
“Did you hear something?” asks the prince.
“The only sound in my ears,” replies the now-princess. “Is our two hearts, beating as one.”
The moon shakes his big round head sadly at these silly fools.