Duet Dance Quotes

When you ask "Do you wanna dance, my barefoot Cinderella? Don't need no slippers or a party dress,the way you're lookin' right now is what I like the best", and then you... Say "do you wanna take a chance? Stay with me forever, no one will ever be more beautiful my barefoot, my barefoot Cinderella.

A long marriage is two people trying to dance a duet and two solos at the same time.

Never invest in any kind of relationship with anyone who is not willing to work on themselves just a little every day. A person who takes no interest in any form of self-improvement, personal development or spiritual growth will also not be inclined to make much of an effort building a truly meaningful connection with you. A relationship with only one partner willing to do the work ceases to be a relationship. And as anyone who has been there will tell you - it's pointless to try and dance the tango solo.

Why do you do this to me?” I whispered. His lips hovered above mine. Dancing. Teasing. “Do what?” “Trap me like this.” “It makes me feel like I have you.” I ached at my core. “I don’t want you to feel like you have me.” “Are you sure of that?

You may make love in dancing as well as sitting.

Something about you caught me by surprise Though I always knew you’d be my demise. “I didn’t want you to love me Didn’t want you thinking of me   So I kept my distance Tried to ignore your existence I was blinded by my pride With you, the Jekyll to my Hyde   But that’s where you found me Baby, that’s where you unwound me   Loving you would be as easy as taking a breath But to look at you, that’s a dance with death   I’d risk it all, For you I would You’d make me fall, And fall I would   Loving you would be as easy as taking a breath But to be by you, that’s a dance with death. “I thought once was enough You turned to me and called my bluff, Maybe I should have walked away but I couldn’t resist, I needed replay after replay   Loving you would be as easy as taking a breath But to give you up, that’s a dance with death   We were over from the start I never said I’d give my heart So now it’s time for this to end After all, a friend is just a friend   Loving you would be as easy as taking a breath But to give you up, that’s a dance with death   So now it’s time for this to end After all, a friend is just a friend.

That mean, vicious little voice in your head that screams at you, tells you you’re not good enough, not strong enough, that you can’t do something? Every time you hear that voice echoing in your head, you scream back…WATCH ME and then do it because, sweetie, that voice is a fucking liar!

You are dancers, all of you. Life moves you; life dances you. To dance is to investigate and celebrate the experience of being alive. Like life, a dance creates and destroys itself in every moment. Like love, it is beyond reason. Ephemeral as breath, concrete as bone, dance is made of you. You sculpt space. You write with your body in a wordless language that is deeply understood. You grace the space within and around you when you dance. Force, trajectory, inertia, and recovery: dancing is a ride, a duet between your instinct and imagination. To dance is to heighten your experience of the present moment. Your body is your location - when you dance, you are profoundly engaged in being there. To dance is to feel the resonance of your life, to delight in your existence. To be human is to be danced by experience, energy and emotion.

She gave him this dance. Now, I could only hope she’d give me the last one.

My mother said when you’re happy you should dance! And when you’re pissed you should dance! And when you drink too much tequila you should dance . . . while you cry.

He answers by grabbing her hand and placing it on his head and grunting, “Woman, play with hair, watch hobbitses.

I lurve her. She’s got such beautiful fuck off energy. It’s like big dick energy…but spi-cy!

Loving you would be as easy as taking a breath But to look at you, that’s a dance with death

It was me, after all, who had shown my wife the dance, the moves, the steps and turns of infidelity. It was me who’d betrayed her first. And it was my fault she was in his bed right now.

I want to cuddle on the couch with your hands in my hair while we watch movies. I want to read Faerie porn books with you and then act out your favorite filthy scenes. Savy, I want to be with you.

But I knew Charlie. I loved her — truly loved her — not for who she used to be or whatever fantasy Reese had of her in his head. I’d seen her sick. I’d danced with her on her best days and helped her stand on the days she couldn’t bear the thought of it. I’d built a home with her, built a life with her, and neither hell nor high water could keep me from keeping the vows I’d made to her the day we were married.

A storm of fruity sweetness! A concerto of seafood and herbs! And a fragrant duet of thick lamb mousse and creamed root vegetables! All three glasses present their own colorful tableau that unfolds across your tongue! "Though each glass maintains a clear and unique flavor profile... ... from creamed raw sea urchin to smoked scallop mousse- the perfect accenting layer is always slipped into the perfect place. It's like a gorgeous richly colored show of mousses is dancing in my mouth!

It’s been what, a little bit over two weeks since you started this shit with her? The free trial is over, dude. If you wanna keep her, you got to pay the subscription fee. Me? I got my credit card ready to lay down for that sweet ass. So move along.

That winter night was the first time she truly knew what it felt like to step outside of herself. Singing felt like breathing, dancing as natural as walking. When she sang her duet with Randy the Farmhand—a lanky drama student at NYU—she felt, almost, as if she were falling in love with him. After the curtain call, the cast surrounded her with cheers, and part of her knew, even then, that it was the greatest performance she would ever give. And she’d only managed it because she knew that somewhere, in the darkened theater, Jude was watching.

Sappho isn't really meant to be read. It's meant to be sung and there were dances for the songs, also. Sappho was a performance artist, and now she exists as a textual project. She was saved by her critics, and by people who wrote of her in letters to each other. As the morning sun lathers the pool through the long windows and stripes the opposite walls in gold, I look at the fragment translations. She's paper, too. A paper poet for a paper boy. People claim to be translating her but they don't, really, they use her to write poems from as they fill in the gaps in the fragments. A duet. She may have meant for these to be solos but they're duets now, though the second singer blends in with the first. The first singer in this case is offstage, like in the old days of stars who couldn't sing, a real singer hidden behind a curtain, which is the velvet drape of history.

Around the glade this pair of woodland nymphs danced. He swept her in a waltz to a duet that was sometimes off tune, sometimes rent with giggling and laughter as they made their own music. A breathless Erienne fell to a sun-dappled hummock of deep, soft moss, and laughing for the pure thrill of the day, she spread her arms, creating a comely yellow-hued flower on the dark green sward while seeming every bit as fragile as a blossom to the man who watched her. With bliss-bedazzled eyes, she gazed through the treetops overhead where swaying branches, bedecked in the first bright green of spring, caressed the underbellies of the freshlet zephyrs, and the fleecy white clouds raced like frolicking sheep across an azure lea. Small birds played courting games, and the earlier ones tended nests with single-minded perseverance. A sprightly squirrel leapt across the spaces, and a larger one followed, bemused at the sudden coyness of his mate. Christopher came to Erienne and sank to his knees on the thick, soft carpet, then bracing his hands on either side of her, slowly lowered himself until his chest touched her bosom. For a long moment he kissed those blushing lips that opened to him and welcomed him with an eagerness that belied the once-cool maid. Then he lifted her arm and lay beside her, keeping her hand in his as he shared her viewpoint of the day. They whispered sweet inanities, talked of dreams, hopes, and other things, as lovers are wont to do. Erienne turned on her side and taking care to keep her hand in the warm nest, ran her other fingers through his tousled hair. “You need a shearing, milord,” she teased. He rolled his head until he could look up into those amethyst eyes. “And does my lady see me as an innocent lamb ready to be clipped?” At her doubtful gaze, he questioned further. “Or rather a lusting, long-maned beast? A zealous suitor come to seduce you?” Erienne’s eyes brightened, and she nodded quickly to his inquiry. “A love-smitten swain? A silver-armored knight upon a white horse charging down to rescue you?” “Aye, all of that,” she agreed through a giggle. She came to her knees and grasped his shirt front with both hands. “All of that and more.” She bent to place a honeyed kiss upon his lips, then sitting back, spoke huskily. “I see you as my husband, as the father of my child, as my succor against the storm, protector of my home, and lord of yonder manse. But most of all, I see you as the love of my life.” -Erienne & Christopher

My mother never seemed to listen to much music, but she loved Barbara Streisand, counting The Way We Were and Yentl as two of her favorite films. I remembered how we used to sing the song "Tell Him" together, and skipped through the album until I found it on track four. "Remember this?" I laughed, turning up the volume. It's a duet between Babe and Celine Dion, two powerhouse divas joining together for one epic track. Celine plays the role of a young woman afraid to confess her feelings to the man she loves, and Barbara is her confidant, encouraging her to take the plunge. "I'm scared, so afraid to show I care... Will he think me weak, if I tremble when I speak?" Celine begins. When I was a kid my mother used to quiver her lower lip for dramatic effect when she sang the word "tremble." We would trade verses in the living room. I was Barbara and she was Celine, the two of us adding interpretive dance and yearning facial expressions to really sell it. "I've been there, with my heart out in my hand..." I'd join in, a trail of chimes punctuating my entrance. "But what you must understand, you can't let the chance to love him pass you by!" I'd exclaim, prancing from side to side, raising my hand to urge my voice upward, showcasing my exaggerated vocal range. Then, together, we'd join in triumphantly. "Tell him! Tell him that the sun and moon rise in his eyes! Reach out to him!" And we'd ballroom dance in a circle along the carpet, staring into each other's eyes as we crooned along to the chorus. My mom let out a soft giggle from the passenger seat and we sang quietly the rest of the way home. Driving out past the clearing just as the sun went down, the scalloped clouds flushed with a deep orange that made it look like magma.

It is in my blood. It is in my bones. It is in my brain. One day my body will betray me, dancing into the sea, my mind a passenger only. The water will close over my head and I will drown

And then we’re dancing, while he sings to me.

She doesn’t even try to get more from me and that’s not something I’m used to. I think I need to just fuck her and get her out of my system. I only want her because she’s not interested. That and I haven’t banged anyone since summer. That has to be the reason. She’s not my type, she’s not even pretty in her baggy old lady clothes. I lift my gaze up to her dark brown hair that’s always wrapped up tight in a bun and wonder if it’s as soft as it looks. If it’s long enough to wrap my fist in it while I…

Love was dancing in the water. Love was having a slushie contest and making sand art for each other. Love was seeing her cry and wiping her tears and fears away. Love took the shape of June. Not a feeling, not a high, not a phase—but a person. A home.

Love was dancing in the water. Love was having a slushie contest and making sand art for each other. Love was seeing her cry and wiping her tears and fears away. Love took the shape of June. Not a feeling, not a high, not a phase—but a person. A home.

The song was “I See the Light”, another Tangled number. Aaron sang the male part of the duet, and Walter’s friend Rose did a less-than-Mina soprano, but mostly the music fell away in the brilliant presence of the two young men on the dance floor.

dances with mine as if we’ve been doing this our whole

Alright, you cuntasauruses, game on! May the best man win.

Sweetie, I am doing my job. I’m doing every woman’s job. Helping you up when you stumble. Instead of competing with each other, we need to start lifting each other. That’s how we all rise. Besides, they’re looking for four new girls, not just one.

Sorry’s just a word to try to get out of something, to dodge trouble if you’ve been caught out. Sorry’s a five-letter disgrace that shouldn’t even need to be used. It should be abolished from the fucking dictionary. Actions do speak louder than words, and if she’s as sorry as she makes out in her voicemails, then why does she sometimes look happy? Why is she going out partying with her friends? Kissing guys who—shockingly—vanish days later? Why does she dance around her apartment, singing ridiculous songs about love? Why is she living her life without me? If the bitch is sorry, then why is she only looking me up on the internet and not hunting for me? Why isn’t she looking for me?

Please, Pup, eat,” he swipes his thumb across my chin, “dance, sing, smile.

Sweetie, I am doing my job. I’m doing every woman’s job. Helping you up when you stumble. Instead of competing with each other, we need to start lifting each other. That’s how we all rise.

And YOU! Don’t think I would forget to bring you something. I have it right here!” She sticks her hand deep into the bag and rummages around in it before meeting his eyes with her furious blue ones and slowly pulls her hand out. It’s empty except for her middle finger, proud and stiff.

W-why are you helping me? Aren’t we competing for the same job?” She tosses her blond waves over one shoulder with a snort. “Sweetie, I am doing my job. I’m doing every woman’s job. Helping you up when you stumble. Instead of competing with each other, we need to start lifting each other. That’s how we all rise.

Can I give you one more piece of advice? This one is for on the dance floor and for every day after.” I nod slowly and she straightens her shoulders. “That mean, vicious little voice in your head that screams at you, tells you you’re not good enough, not strong enough, that you can’t do something? Every time you hear that voice echoing in your head, you scream back…WATCH ME and then do it because, sweetie, that voice is a fucking liar!

Tiger is savage. And her darkness dances with mine.

Loving you would be as easy as taking a breath But to look at you, that’s a dance with death.

I wish I could tell you I woke up slowly each morning. That I made myself breakfast, reciting intentions of clemency over the stove and kettle. I wish I could tell you the bitter peel dried and only sweet fruit remains, and that grown-up men on the train—with noses and mouths like yours—don’t noiselessly urge me to rend these garments of flesh for pound after pound of offering in cathedrals of salt. But, I cannot; for beneath burning, smokeless blades, my bones falter beneath me. The latticework corrodes. The vines wither and unravel. A golem of a woman sculpted from crimson clay and held together, not by magic, but by dreams, like knives in its joints, facing that tireless choir of headlights that defy the night. For now, all that remains of me is stained lace on charred earth, wind-stirred to dolorous dance while our purgatory duet carves your name into each vein. I rise again and again, and you do not.

We see in RKO the beginnings of the use of dance as part of the plot line or growing out of the action and, with the teaming of Astaire and Rogers, the introduction of technically demanding duet and chorus work. It marks the demise of the “hoofer” and the birth of the “dancer.

I stared at the french toast, the smell of it taunting me. I could almost hear his laughter from that first morning he’d cooked for me all those years ago, could almost feel his arms around me as we danced in the kitchen, one of his favorite places to pull me into him and sway in time with our favorite songs.

They tip-toed around each other always watching, never touching. At least he tried to avoid the touching, and yet at times his body would betray him, reaching out for her as if out of its own accord, being at ease in each other’s company without wanting to be and even falling back into their old routine filled with orders and witty comebacks. It was quite the dance really. One he had missed and come to secretly enjoy again. Yeah, apparently he really liked torturing himself.