We greet each other. I can’t remember his name, but he remembers mine from when we first met three weeks ago. That rarely happens to me.
He and I have never danced before. I’m wearing jeans and a neon green jacket. He’s dressed in tan slacks and a striped dress shirt. I wonder how our less than synonymous style choices will make us look when we’re out on the floor?
He offers me his hand and I take it. My pinky is raised in the air. I try to bring it back down in line with my other fingers, but somehow my small hand feels too crowded in his.
My other hand descends onto his shoulder. I stare at it, trying to place it just right because there’s a certain spot on his shoulder that is the best, or maybe it’s his upper arm? I don’t remember and I can’t find it, so I leave my hand where it is, feeling a little bit giddy. Now that I’m here, I feel like I’ve forgotten all that I’ve learned so far. His arm circles around to my back and his hand stops at my shoulder blade.
I let out a nervous breath; he mimics me and chuckles. His face is open and friendly and his eyes squint up when he smiles. I’m sure all the color has drained from my face.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No.”
The music starts despite my reservations. It’s a familiar song, but I can’t listen to it. I’m paying attention to him.
I watch his face – he’s counting the beat. I’m standing here with my right foot free, ready to step back when he steps toward me.
I can tell he knows the song and has probably danced to it a hundred times before with girls better suited to dance than I. I’m more nervous because he seems so advanced. This is only my third ballroom class. We’ve been working on the waltz.
As soon as he starts moving, my eyes stray from his face. I stare off to the left, my face turned away from his. My lips move with the beat: One, two, three – four, five, six… One, two, three – four, five, six… His eyes rarely seem to leave my face, making me feel self-conscious. I try to ignore it, stop thinking and follow his lead.
I start to smile as the steps I’ve learned over the past three weeks come together into this one dance. We flow with the rhythm around the floor. His stare is unnerving. I look up at him and his smile greets me. The lights glint off his glasses, so I can’t see the color of his eyes. I look away, feeling shy and awkward. My leg knocks into his and I trip over my own feet. I laugh a little, so embarrassed.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“It’s OK. You’re doing fine.”
We start again. I feel like I’m doing better, but the music is coming to an end. He thanks me for the dance and I thank him, blushing profusely. He’s still holding my hand as I walk away. I look back and he’s still smiling, maybe even laughing. Am I blushing that much? He lets go when his and my arms have extended as far as they can.
I hurry and take refuge in the bathroom. To think, to shake off this seriously unreasonable embarrassment I'm feeling. Sigh, I think I love the waltz.
He and I have never danced before. I’m wearing jeans and a neon green jacket. He’s dressed in tan slacks and a striped dress shirt. I wonder how our less than synonymous style choices will make us look when we’re out on the floor?
He offers me his hand and I take it. My pinky is raised in the air. I try to bring it back down in line with my other fingers, but somehow my small hand feels too crowded in his.
My other hand descends onto his shoulder. I stare at it, trying to place it just right because there’s a certain spot on his shoulder that is the best, or maybe it’s his upper arm? I don’t remember and I can’t find it, so I leave my hand where it is, feeling a little bit giddy. Now that I’m here, I feel like I’ve forgotten all that I’ve learned so far. His arm circles around to my back and his hand stops at my shoulder blade.
I let out a nervous breath; he mimics me and chuckles. His face is open and friendly and his eyes squint up when he smiles. I’m sure all the color has drained from my face.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No.”
The music starts despite my reservations. It’s a familiar song, but I can’t listen to it. I’m paying attention to him.
I watch his face – he’s counting the beat. I’m standing here with my right foot free, ready to step back when he steps toward me.
I can tell he knows the song and has probably danced to it a hundred times before with girls better suited to dance than I. I’m more nervous because he seems so advanced. This is only my third ballroom class. We’ve been working on the waltz.
As soon as he starts moving, my eyes stray from his face. I stare off to the left, my face turned away from his. My lips move with the beat: One, two, three – four, five, six… One, two, three – four, five, six… His eyes rarely seem to leave my face, making me feel self-conscious. I try to ignore it, stop thinking and follow his lead.
I start to smile as the steps I’ve learned over the past three weeks come together into this one dance. We flow with the rhythm around the floor. His stare is unnerving. I look up at him and his smile greets me. The lights glint off his glasses, so I can’t see the color of his eyes. I look away, feeling shy and awkward. My leg knocks into his and I trip over my own feet. I laugh a little, so embarrassed.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“It’s OK. You’re doing fine.”
We start again. I feel like I’m doing better, but the music is coming to an end. He thanks me for the dance and I thank him, blushing profusely. He’s still holding my hand as I walk away. I look back and he’s still smiling, maybe even laughing. Am I blushing that much? He lets go when his and my arms have extended as far as they can.
I hurry and take refuge in the bathroom. To think, to shake off this seriously unreasonable embarrassment I'm feeling. Sigh, I think I love the waltz.
