90 : there were times we were damn good dancers

This is true:
In later years, she won’t remember the name of the hall with the long, sweeping drive. She will remember that it was lined with ancient silver birches, the bark peeling off of them in white, ribbon-like spirals.
She will remember the way that he reaches for her hand over the gear stick and the way that he moans when she changes the radio station. She is as comfortable with him as she is in her favourite pair of jeans. She has been for a long, long time. 

She won’t remember the stiffness that she feels that night, surrounded by people that she doesn’t know. She will remember the way that her dress grazes the floor, and the way that the veins in his hands looked as she helped to put his cufflinks on.

It is not the first time that they have worn each other for a parade. It will not be the last. She stands at his arm like a perceived trophy, he stands at hers as an apparent accessory.

This is also true: 
They are each other’s everything, and that everything would be nothing without them.

She won’t remember the monotony of the dinner. She will remember the way that the lights shine on the crystalline chandelier, how it is almost gaudy in it’s splendour. 
She will remember the way that he leans towards her and promises in a whisper.
She won’t remember the way that her lips quirk upwards at the mere suggestion, the way that she nods once before turning to make her excuses to the dinner guest on her right. 
He will.

This is true:
The way that they lose themselves as they try to make their way back to their allocated room will be something that comes to her before sleep for years to come.

This is also true:
They don’t want to be found.

The ballroom that they wander into feels clandestine with the low lighting, angled at the paintings gracing the walls. 
She has always been one step ahead of him. 
There is half of a hushed sentence on her lips as she turns back to look for him in the dark. It dies and fall like leaves when he reaches out a hand for her. 
She meets him halfway; After all, it’s been a long time since she asked “Why?” rather than just taking hold.

With no music, they are not elegant dancers. 
He is six foot two and yet still seems stocky. She is willow thin and violently right-footed.
But God, they give it everything. The hall is theirs, they are exhausted, and yet he lifts her with such sure hands as she throws her arms out wide. To the beat of their own hearts, she pulls away and spins back to his chest, dress flying out around her legs. They play cat and mouse across the vast floor, and she won’t remember the way that her stilettos rub but she will always remember his smile as their feet play out a one, two, three rhythm.
They are not elegant dancers, but they are very much in love.

Here is the lie:
At this stage in time, they are not falling apart.

(I couldn't find the duet that she did with Meatloaf, but if you can then that's a gorgeous version)