They go with the waltz because the first time she hears it, she has to pull off of the road into an empty parking lot, turn off the engine, and listen to it all over again.

He had burned for her a CD of possibilities.  It was the first song on the disc.

The song starts out with no introduction, with no set beginning point.  It begins so quietly that you can't even hear it, and then it gradually (slowly) builds up with its chiming steel guitar, soft mandolin, and steady drumbeat.  The beat stays the same (strong, determined), but the rhythm undulates.  The guitar and mandolin melodies entwine with each other.  It ends the way it begins, only in reverse, slowly becoming softer and softer, with the melody dying down into a peaceful silence. 

It's in three-fourths time.  The perfect song for the most important dance of their lives.  And when she tells him it's the song she's chosen, he tells her he'd known it all along.

They've had many, many dances, none of which to music.  So they're clumsy when they start.  She gets frustrated, and gives up many times.  Cries to her mother.  But he soothes her, tells her it's only practice, and that he knows they'll get it right.  He makes her try again.  She does, and within the notes of the song she finds confidence.  Soon they begin having their own private rehearsals in vacant parking garages. 

When the day comes, it's not just them anymore, and their audience consists of more than just concrete pillars.  There's wood under their feet instead of blacktop.

They step out onto the floor and he takes her hand in his.  She holds on to his shoulder, he clutches her waist, and they wait.  During the pause, he takes her in, the curls framing her face, the pearls around her neck.  She watches him, too, tall in a tuxedo, his hair slicked back.  Her forehead smoothes as his eyes plead with her to relax.  She can.  She does.  She can see her mother and father over his shoulder, holding hands and waiting, watching.

They take their first step as the first audible drumbeat resonates through the hall.  As they move together, they can hear their audience gasp, but they forget that they're being watched because focusing on each other is the most important part of the dance, as they've learned.  When the mandolin begins to weave in and out with the chiming of the guitars, she accidentally nudges his foot with her white beaded slipper.  But she concentrates on his eyes and pays attention to the steady beat of the drum.  She tightens her grip on his hand and he steadies her with his fingertips on her waist.

It's just them and the song again, and they circle over the floor (circle, like the bands around their fingers).  They're connected by more than just hands as they waltz.  It's their waltz.  And as the guitars and the mandolin slowly fade away, the beat of the drum becoming less audible, they stop moving their feet. 

But they never stop dancing.

She keeps the CD with her after that day, always, in case they ever end up in vacant parking garages.