The punch was sweet and cold.

We watched the couples on the floor.

Some of them were our age, moving with a practiced, easy grace.

Others were younger, laughing as they tried to keep up with the fast tempo of the music.

“My wife and I used to come here on Friday nights,” Harold said, looking out over the floor.

“It was different then,” he said. “The band was bigger.”

“Arthur didn’t care much for dancing,” I said.

“He would come with me to weddings, but he always preferred to sit at the table and talk business.”

“It’s hard to let go of the things we think we have to do,” Harold said.

“Yes,” I said. “But we have to let them go eventually.”

The band finished the fast song, and the dancers applauded.

The trumpet player stepped up to the microphone.

“We’re going to slow things down a bit for this next one,” he said.

The band began to play “Sentimental Journey.”

The melody was slow and sweet, the clarinet leading the way.

Harold stood up and offered me his hand.