The dance

“I should tell you that I’m very bad with heels.” He whispered back: “It’s OK, we’ll be careful.”

He eyed me from across the dance floor. It was dim inside the ballroom, but I could still vaguely see his jacket, unbuttoned. His hair, disheveled. Only he could be so unkempt but still look dashing. The weight of his stares had been driving me crazy throughout the night.

Finally, he walked over. My friends squealed in silence; one gripped my arm so tightly it hurt. From the corner of my eye, I saw him come nearer.

“May I have this dance?”

To my left, Maria was about to pass out. To my right, Rachel was indiscreetly recording the events. The others just sat there in quiet excitement, holding each other firmly until their knuckles turned white, their eyes twinkling with mischief.

“OK,” I said as I untangled my legs that have been crossed for most of the night.

As we walked to the middle of the dance floor, I felt two very distinct things: One, his hand on the small of my back, and, two, everyone else’s eyes gawking at us, following our every move.

He found us a place on the dance floor, just beneath a silver plastic star we put up earlier. I took that moment to stand on stretched legs and put my mouth on his ear; he towered over me by about 5 inches, even with my 4-inch stilettos: “I should tell you that I’m very bad with heels, so I might just fall off of my shoes anytime.”

Guiding my arms around his neck, his hands then trailed down so slowly and parked at my waist; he whispered back, “It’s OK, we’ll be careful.”

For months now, we have been playing this game that only we know is happening. Those stolen glances that linger longer than they should were not left unnoticed. It has been a while now, but for the first time in a long time, I feel heady. I feel desired by someone older than me, and for some reason, it makes me feel giddy … and curious … about how his hands might feel on my hips or how his breath might feel on my lips.

He was so near that I could smell his soap on the skin of his neck. Was that Irish Spring? I wanted to run my fingers through his hair because it smelled so sweet. Mixed berries, was it?

But before I could act on it, an image of another woman—long light brown hair and deep-set eyes—flashed before me. His wife, the mother of his kids, was probably at their home right now, watching TV with her children, waiting for her husband to come home or probably organizing her collection of mixed berries shampoo bottles in their bathroom.

I pulled away slightly—from him and from the moment. I was not going to let this infatuation get any further. He was obviously flirting with me. But flirting back is not in my job description. He was my employer, yes, and despite how flattered this was making me feel, no way was I going to delude myself into believing that there could be something here.

The song neared its end, but his hand was still on my waist, gripping me securely, as if afraid I would melt away. His eyes scanned my face, seemingly memorizing every contour, every detail and imperfection. He smiled—sadly—his lopsided grin was very brief.

We had slowed to a complete stop, yet we could not break away. We were body-to-body, eye-to-eye. But the silence of the last notes of the song fading into the background pulled us back to the moment.

We were here. Together, on this dance floor, right now. Engulfed in such extreme sexual attraction. Under glittery plastic stars and paper moons in the dim lighting. It all feels silly, but it isn’t . It is very real. And it is painful.

Ever so casually, I pulled my arms away and stepped back. He did the same, his arm brushing slightly against mine. It was beginning to be too cold, and at the back of my mind, I imagined him wrapping his arms around me, pulling me close, gently pushing stray hair from my face, and grazing his lips softly at the tip of my nose.

He did none of that, and walked me back to my table—not touching, not even breathing, the weight of the realization heavy that had this been a different lifetime, it wouldn’t be like this.

So it hung in the air. Had he known I would come along, would he have waited? I sat on the Tiffany chair, casually, as if my heart wasn’t prying my chest open to latch itself onto him.

The fact of the matter was this: He didn’t know, he didn’t wait, and we really shouldn’t be feeling this.

Marie is a pre-kinder teacher.

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One great love

Love and spoken word