Dance With Me

"What do you mean you never get to dance?" he asked from across the booth.

"I just don't," she answered. "You don't get out much when you have a kid; you know that."

"Oh, well this is gonna have to stop here and now. I'll be right back." He grinned and slipped out of the bench, got a bunch of singles from the bartender, and studied the silent jukebox. It was a Friday afternoon, so there wasn't much action in the place. He started feeding money to the machine and punching in selections, then walked back to her across the small dance floor with his hand held out.

"C'mon, dance with me. I know you like these," he said as the opening riffs of "Mustang Sally" played, shaking his hips to the hard drumbeat and grinning. She laughed and held out her hand, letting him pull her up and onto the dance floor, letting him pull her close and slide his hand around her back, letting him lead her in a bump-and-grind, circling, both of them singing along and ignoring the bartender staring at them.

She made the mistake of thinking they were done, but he shook a finger "No" at her as he told her, "I played the whole thing, the whole soundtrack. Don't ever let it be said that I let a lady go without dancing."

He reached out for her again, as "Take me to the River" hit the first chorus, and took just her hand, danced around her, and she joined him, dancing harder, feeling the horn section louder and louder, watching him move, loving how it felt to get loose again, to just go with the rhythm, to work through the music, to let it fill her head and her body.

Before she realized it, the song had changed, he was grabbing her other hand, standing so close but not touching her, singing "Ch ch chain of fools..." and she matched the way he was swaying side to side, taking advantage of the back-up singers' voices. The stared into each other's eyes, smiling and singing to each other, mimicking each others' moves, laughing. When it was over, they stood back and applauded each other.

The Dark End of the Street, he mouthed to her as the next song came on, dropping his hands to his sides, tilting his head and asking her questions, so many questions with his eyes. A wistful smile came to her lips, a look of regret in her eyes as she stared back at him. "Come here, sugar," she said, pulling him close, and moving with the song, slow, so slow, so passionate but somehow mournful and their arms around each other, her face turned to his, their eyes locked and their bodies so close they couldn't get any closer, each feeling the other's heart-beat, the other's longing, the other's acceptance of what they would never have, what they could never share, never be.

"You and me at the dark end of the street, you and me... I know time is going to take it's toll, we have to pay for all the love we stole. It's a sin, and we know it's wrong, but our love is coming on strong. Steal away to the dark end of the street..." She sang it to him as he danced her around the floor, his eyes telling her everything, his lips aching as he watched her mouth wrap around the words they'd never live.

"If we should meet, just walk on by. Oh darling, please don't cry. Tonight we'll meet at the dark end of the street, you and me," the song ended, but they didn't let go, they didn't move.

"Destination Anywhere" was half-way through playing when he pulled his face to hers and they both sighed. "I know," he whispered. "You're sure about this, aren't you?"

She couldn't answer at first, torn, knowing they were doing the right thing, trying to forget everything she imagined. She felt his chest rise and fall over and again and tried to imprint it in her memory. "Dance with me," was all she could say, a catch in her voice.

"Whatever you want," he said, pulling back and smiling, tapping the funky percussion beat out on her back as "I Can't Stand the Rain" began, breaking into a grin as she started to rock her hips into his in time with the guitar. She grinned back and they laughed, and he lived up to his word and danced her through the afternoon, through the regret, through the longing.