But for now, this is for us—a release and a relief—our
Footloose moment. Dance your ass off. This is our time.
You pulled me up to a fast song and we did that thing we do.
We danced, and smiled, and laughed and mugged and vamped. We bumped into
strangers with friendly smiles and apologetic hands on shoulders, to be met
with more smiles and mimed versions of “It’s OK!” We spun, we bobbed and
weaved, we floated like slightly buzzed butterflies and stung like stingerless
bees (yeah, I know. Doesn’t make sense, but I had to finish the Ali
appropriation).
And the fast song stopped, and the slow jam kicked in and we
fell into a familiar stance, your arms around my waist, one of mine up and
around and between your shoulder blades, the other down and around and planted
firmly in the small of your back., that perfect valley of intimacy We swayed a well-known
sway, your head against my chest, my chin gently rested on the top of your head.
Saying nothing, just slow, weight from one foot to another, in unison, just
being there. And every mistake I’ve ever made blossoming in my mind and my
heart.
Thankfully before I could get too involved in myself (and
let’s face it, that’s my flaw. Always involved in myself. This entry is a
glaring testament to that) the song ended and we decoupled, smiled, raised
hands to the low ceiling and cheered.
Back to the table with friends, and drinks, and small talk,
you danced with an old man, and young friend, all of us like chattering
squirrels, talking in tongues that would make no sense to someone who didn’t
speak the language.
And then another slow song, and you stood up and held out
your hand and there wasn’t even a moment of hesitation. In my mind I was
reaching for your hand before the song even started. But in the real world, you
reached first. You always did. Because you’re the brave one, the smart one.
And we went back to it: waist, between shoulder blades,
small of back. The difference this time was I was already opened up,
emotionally, so everything became almost “Too Much”, but it was a “Too Much”
that I didn’t mind. The smell of your hair, the softness of it as I turned my
head and rested my cheek on top of your head. I forgot how your hair always
smells a little bit like rain, even in the heat of summer. Things I couldn’t
relive right now, due to circumstances, like how my lips fit perfectly into to
dimple of your temple. The tightness of your hold on my waist, how I held you
so closely that it felt like I was trying to absorb you into me, the fear of
the song ending even though it had only been going for about twenty seconds.
Our tempo floated off into its own thing, my mind was fogged with the now, the
notes and drums and din of the room fazing out like a DJ dropped the lo-pass
filter (I had to nerd out at least once, right?). I was peripherally worried
that I might be holding you too tight, but then I noticed that you weren’t
being dainty either. My hand that was on your lower back was pulling as tight
as it could, as was my hand that was up high. I couldn’t get you close enough,
tight enough; I couldn’t block out the surrounding environment enough to be
happy. I wanted us to just float off and up through the roof, into the sky,
away from all of the bullshit and missteps I’ve made. I knew that couldn’t
happen, but this was an acceptable Plan B.
I was cracking inside, but it wasn’t pain that was leaking
out. It was a glow, of knowing that the world could make someone as
overwhelmingly magical as you. And that I was able, if even for a scant few
minutes, to experience you like most others would never be able to. It’s a
deadly sin, I know, but I took great Pride in that blessing. And also wondered
why in the hell I was allowed such a privilege.
And then, as they always do, the song ended.
Someone needs to make a thirty-minute slow jam. These
four-minute ones aren’t cutting the mustard.
We held on after the music ended, just for a brief moment,
arms still in a vice-like grip around one another. Then, slowly, we separated,
and smiled slowly, shyly, and went back to the table. Whatever I may have
talked about with anyone after that moment, it was all autopilot. I have no
recollection. My brain wasn’t so much in the present as it was jammed in a
locked groove of the previous dance, of the previous few years, of the
knowledge that no one will ever… well, no need to get in to that.
And like all songs, the night ended.
“The one thing that is better than the last slow dance we
had?
Everything.
And what’s better than the last slow dance we had?
Nothing.”
- J. Beauregard
