Dancing In the Rain

and the local radio and TV stations were talking about the dangerous water levels in the canals surrounding the town. He'd been out to see for himself earlier in the day, and had helped carry sand bags for a couple of hours along with other town volunteers until the Army had come and taken over the job. He had walked back to his home, that doubled as his "office space", and eaten his solitary meal upstairs, and waited for the evening and the first of his dance class, pulling on a crisp white shirt, black trousers, socks and shoes.

His mother had insisted on he, his big brother, and little sister on learning how to dance as children. He'd never thought to turn dancing into his living, but after he had left the military life behind, his stint working in a factory had not appealed, ditto in an office, his long time girlfriend had decided that she preferred him away in the Marines and taken up with someone in the Paras. So he had stuck a pin in a map and moved, and since no one seemed very eager to employ a tall, scarred, perhaps intimidating man like him, he had come up with another plan. He'd cleared away all the furniture from his rented front room-cum-kitchen, which had an enormous cathedral ceiling and took up the whole whole ground floor. Then he'd put mirrors along the longest wall, opposite to the French windows and put a small stereo system on top of the kitchenette half wall. The hardwood floors became his studio, and the stairs behind the half wall led up to his converted upper story three bed, which became office, mini kitchen, (stove, microwave and fridge), and his bedroom. It was contained, and neat.

Jimmy looked for the umpteenth time out of the window. Of his three clients for the evening, two had cancelled already. Of the third, Emma, not a word. With the rain the way it was, he wasn't really expecting her, but he wanted her to come. She had been the best thing about this town so far. When she had first turned up, in baggy leggings and an even baggier tee shirt, she had very quietly told him that her fiancé had been some sort of semi-professional dancer in his youth. She wasn't very good, but wanted to improve so as not to embarrass him at their wedding. Jimmy had listened and they had moved around the floor together. She wasn't terrible, she really only needed a bit of practice, but suspected that the level she wanted to reach was way too far above the amount of time they had, and probably way above his own. He had told her so, and she had looked crestfallen. So, he had relented. He hadn't really needed persuading, teaching dance classes required students. She was prepared to pay, he would take her money, until he couldn't teach her anything else, three times a week.

He had wondered why her husband hadn't tried to teach her himself, and why her self imposed standards were so high. She quite obviously loved dancing, but as they had moved around the room and he had listened, Jimmy had begun to get an impression of a man who was cold to his fiance's interests and needs. Inside himself, some part of him reacted to her. Her lessons were always the last one of the day and always went on longer than they should have... Her dancing clothes had changed too. The baggy sweats had changed first to a long dress, and then to heels, as her confidence on the floor had increased. Just kitten heels, but they showed off her ankles, and as Jimmy had moved her around the floor he had begun to move her faster through the steps. Last lesson she'd worn a shorter skirt and blouse, and the twirl had begun to show off what he took to be stocking tops, or maybe not. He attempted to restrain himself from trying to deliberately twirl out faster to see. And she was nearly always wearing make-up now, not a lot, just a trace here and there. That was fine. He didn't like a lot of make-up on a woman.

Her attitude of quiet had changed along with the clothing. Where she had been quiet and reserved, gradually she had begun to climb out of whatever shadow she had put herself into and became bubbly, breathless, easily laughing at herself when she made a mistake. Jimmy remembered and contrasted this with her first few stumbles, when she had visibly tensed in his arms. Waiting for what, he wondered? But now, when she miss-stepped, she recovered easily and carried on through the figures without hesitation. Jimmy found himself more often than not watching her body in the long wall of mirrors, enjoying the contours of her moving body next to his own, and slowly it began trigger the feeling of need in him. Of desire. He had to fight that down! She was a client, a very pretty client, but a client! And almost married! Almost. It made no odds that he, a relative stranger, felt that the wedding surely must be a mistake. So, now, he stared out into the night. He wanted her to come, but then, he also did not want her risking the drive from her home in the rain, and thought she almost certainly wouldn't make the journey. Still, he couldn't help but watch, and wait.

The car's headlights, when they showed, were misty through the windows. It was impossible to tell what kind of car it was, but as Jimmy sat in the dark in his little upstairs kitchen, he watched it drive slowly down the hill, and finally turn into his driveway. He sat for a moment looking, almost in disbelief, and then he ran down the stairs three at a time. He hit the wooden floor at the bottom with the heavy thunk of his dancing shoes, and then ran to the door to pull it open. Then he was out into the small porch, wrenching the door open as he saw her in the rain, struggling to make it to the front door. She was having trouble wielding her umbrella in the wind. He saw the flash of her smile,and then he flattened himself against the wall as she ran past him into his hallway, the umbrella lifted in her outstretched hands and dripping water. She was dry, but he, and his hallway were not! Her umbrella had got him right across the chest

"Em," he said quietly. "Coat and umbrella in the porch, please."

She looked at him for a moment and then saw his very wet shirt clinging to his chest, and her smile faded.

"Oh, sorry."

He helped her out of the coat and hung it on the peg in the porch, and took the umbrella from her, folding it and putting it into an umbrella stand that would catch the water.

"No damage done. I've been wet before. A towel, and a new shirt and I'll be as right as.." he paused and then grinned, "rain." She chuckled.

He walked past her onto the dance floor, his eye taking in the shortest skirt he had seen in her yet, and taller heels than usual. The tight white blouse was the same one that she'd worn earlier in the week, and he got the faint impression of a pink bra beneath it. He opened one of the old kitchen cupboards and got himself the towel, and then from another a very neatly ironed shirt to replace the wet one, which he pulled off and discarded in the sink, He heard a sharp intake of breath, and he looked over his shoulder and realized that she was seeing the scar on his back.

Without thinking he said, "Bayonet. It itches now and then, but otherwise it's worse than it looks," he told her. He grabbed the fresh shirt, and began to out it on. "Now, on a night like this, what on Earth made you come here?"

Emma bit her lip, with difficulty pulling her awareness from his muscular torso and arms, her realization that Jimmy the dance teacher had lived a whole other life... those terrible scars... a bayonet?! She was staring rudely... But he'd asked a question, and suddenly she was aware of how odd it was, that she was here... the reality of the situation brought shockingly into focus. She had traveled miles at a crawl, terrified of the rain, the bad roads, other drivers who weren't being so careful. Her friends would be horrified if they knew the risks she had taken to be here. Why? Come to think of it, she did seem to give some special importance to the dance lessons - she was always aware of the next lesson with some kind of subliminal anticipation, an upcoming treat she would remember happily several times each day. Therefore, as soon as she had heard of the incoming bad weather, her first thought had been 'oh no.. I hope it won't affect the dance lessons'. Even when the rising waters had been reported on the radio, she had merely started planning her route over the higher land, taking a detour around an area she knew would become impassable. It hadn't even occurred to her to cancel the lesson. How strange! How could she possibly answer him?

'I...' She looked up, as though for inspiration, but, catching his eye for an instant, realized immediately that this was a mistake and looked away. The impression of his muscular torso and arms lingered in her mind, he'd seemed impossibly solid, as he slid his arms into the shirt. Some demon in her head informed her that the same interplay of muscle was happening under his shirt every time they danced. She suddenly felt too hot, panicky, guilty. She cast around, examining the wall. 'Oh, it isn't so bad... I've lived here all my life...' Emma, listening to herself, hoped that was vague enough, though it was factually incorrect. Luckily, Jimmy seemed to accept the non-explanation.

Emma felt relieved, but glancing around, saw that he'd also turned and was buttoning his shirt efficiently, bottom to top, crisp white covering the darker tones of his skin and the hair covering his chest. The cuffs were still open, undone, and something about watching seemed terribly intimate. However, she wasn't able to stop her eyes, fascinated by his hands, impossibly large, fastening the buttons. Not quickly, not slowly, but somehow taking forever. She felt that she should be helping him.. how odd. She had never buttoned up a man's shirt, or felt the urge. Sometimes she thought that she had a fondness for Jimmy, but her life had taught her to be a realist, and her fiancé Paul had told her about his dancing competition days. All the throwaway flings. The forced intimacy of dancing, perhaps the phony romance, had meant that he'd had sex with every single dance partner, whether they'd danced together for weeks or years. His bragging stories had ensured she was properly schooled about the men of the dancing world... and men in general.

Despite Paul's coldness and affairs, at least she would know the security of a comfortable home and lifestyle, which she had been severely lacking for all of her life barring the last few years. Emma had worked her way through college, winning herself a stable though unglamorous role as a librarian in the city library, and had ultimately made a financially secure life for herself. She was achieving all of her dreams, everything she had ever promised herself and she was proud. Yet... She did wonder sometimes if there was supposed to be more.

Paul was a banker and very much expected a comfortable lifestyle. They would get married and start a family. He had promised to settle down, because although he had become used to taking 'a relaxed view of relationships', marriage was serious. He had told her that she was special to him -- his first serious girlfriend. He had pursued her at the library, after his bank had sponsored a library project for disadvantaged youth. He knew some of the details of her awkward beginnings, so different to his own privilege, and said he didn't hold it against her. He'd seemed to enjoy her timidity, and she had been flattered to capture the attention of a powerful man like him. He had sent gifts to her at work, and her colleagues regularly, even now, told her how lucky she was. He was sometimes still very romantic, surprising her with grand public gestures: beautiful flower arrangements, holidays, expensive gifts. After one of these short breaks she had started to feel very guilty that she didn't do more for him and that she couldn't stop resenting the affairs (which he took little trouble to hide, but had promised meant nothing) and had begun planning this wedding surprise.

Paul had always teased her about her 'two left feet'. When they had first begun dating, he had found it cute that she couldn't dance, but later on, it had just seemed to annoy him. He had taught her steps to the quickstep, tango, foxtrot, and found her lacking in each. Even the waltz seemed to be beyond her. She couldn't remember the steps, she wasn't fast enough, and he had quickly become bored on their nights out dancing. He had almost always found a more graceful partner and delighted each time in giving her 'demonstrations' of how dances were supposed to be done.. and there were no shortage of beautiful, glamorous partners who wanted to take a turn with him. He expected her to stand at the side of the dance floor and watch, so that she could learn. One time, standing there, another man had approached her and asked her to dance. She, flattered, had accepted but afterwards Paul had become very angry, blaming it on her 'brazen' outfit and making horrible insinuations and accusations. She had grown to hate and dread dancing, and it had become one of the subjects she avoided when speaking to Paul.

Strange then, how these dance lessons had become such a lifeline for her, and how whilst part of her mind remembered how Paul had reacted to a strange man asking her to dance, she somehow didn't put Jimmy in that category. He was different somehow. They had started only a few short months ago, but already her negative feelings had changed... she felt nothing but warm anticipation at the thought of being held securely in Jimmy's arms, feeling him lead her effortlessly through the steps, to the beautiful strains of the music playing out from Jimmy's stereo. She had plenty to improve on, she knew, but learning this way was a bliss she craved. Jimmy had such kind eyes, and was such a patient teacher, so solid somehow, and besides, he smelled so good...

Emma came out of her reverie to find that he was watching her, buttons done up, shirt tucked in, looking every inch the confident dancing coach once more. She flushed a little, but grinned up at him, knowing that it was almost time to begin, and feeling light, confident and even sexy in her new outfit. She had bought it just for these lessons... her little secret... the daring skirt she almost hadn't had the nerve to wear, showing off her legs, and which she could never, ever wear anywhere else, as Paul would have a fit, to put it mildly. The blouse had been her first purchase, a week ago.. nothing too showy in design, but having irresistibly fine, luxurious cotton material, which rested on her skin like a kiss. The heels she had purchased years ago, when she had been trying to please Paul on the dance floor. He had told her to remove them whilst they were out at a club, because they had made her 'absolutely, unbearably clumsy'. She had spent the remainder of that dance afraid to put her stockinged feet down on the floor, in case she trod on something, and afraid to move in case she forgot the steps and caused her bare feet to be stepped on. She almost cringed, remembering that. But during the last few lessons she had danced easily in the shoes, and Jimmy was tall enough that she still felt small and properly feminine in his arms... Of course Paul was shorter, so she'd wear flats for the wedding dance.

She'd been a little more daring with her 'me time' shopping last time, and had bought herself a new set of lingerie for the first time in... years. Paul had said that she looked ridiculous in lingerie, like a little girl playing dress up, and she hadn't worn anything but cotton underwear for years. Even though no one would ever see it, she felt better wearing it, somehow. Like a different, more confident person. The underwired bra cupped her breasts firmly, lifted them, made more of her cleavage than perhaps was completely honest, but she felt... sexy? Even so, she had chosen a gentle pink color, more pretty than brazen. She could feel the lacy texture of the bra and panties against her skin now.. had felt them all the way over, in the car.

As Jimmy enfolded his big hand around hers and led her to the dance floor, quivering with anticipation, she felt that she had a delicious secret, and that maybe one day she would be able to hold her own with those flamboyantly feminine creatures who had danced with Paul.

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Jimmy, felt Emily's arm encircle his waist a little gingerly. No one had seen that scar in a long while. He still recalled his mother's reaction to it when she has first seen it on him. She had virtually rushed to hold him, almost crushed him. His father had seen it, and then looked away. He was ex-military himself. He had his own scars, his mothers family didn't have the military background. He had walked away, that was enough for the old man. He, Jimmy, was alive. They had talked about going to the rugby match, and her mother had looked between the pair of them as if listening to a foreign language. Jimmy had once asked his father if he had even killed anyone in the service. His father's reaction was to look his son over quietly for a moment and then said clearly, "Ask me again, when you've been in combat." Now he had. He had not asked his father anything, instead they talked rugby, the pub, anything but combat, and his mother had looked totally out of her depth. The scene had been repeated when his brother and sister had shown up, both had served, and even after their mother had wanted to pull up his shirt to show them, his sister had taken their mothers hands away shaking her head slowly. They had all gone to a rugby game. His mother hated rugby!

He stumbled, and apologized to Emily, and he found her looking up at him with a slightly grave smile on her face. He could see the question forming itself behind her eyes, and unable to ask how. He also realized just how much he knew about her, but she virtually nothing about him. He went through another set of figures with her. Emily's grave look had deepened, and then she said. "It's OK, my father was military, he never spoke about any of it. My mother always said, leave him be, he needs to feel normal. I didn't understand exactly what she meant, truly still don't, but then I've never been in the military."

She looked thoughtfully up at him as they moved together over the floor, "But I know some do, and some don't, and not to press." Jimmy felt arms pull him tighter and for a moment he remembered his mothers hug, it had been well away from the scar, Emily's' was on top of it. It still tingled, and did now, but it wasn't unpleasant. Her hand in fact was right over the top of it, he could feel her palm pressing down on to it. Part of him wanted to twist away, part wanted her to feel it, know the real him, and he felt the first tentative tug begin in his groin. Fuck! Was he getting turned on by having his scar touched? Dancing. Teaching, he was here to teach! He saw that she was still looking very gravely at him, trying to read his mood perhaps? She was so small. Her round face still had that air of innocence about it that belied her actual age, made the seriousness of her expression slightly ridiculous, but also pulled gently at his heart. He found the words, and they slowly fell from his mouth.

"It's a bit silly really. I lost my marbles one day. We had had a severe firefight to capture a few small buildings on the edge of a town, so I was low on ammunition in my rifle, and as we entered, a soldier came out of one of the buildings and ran straight out at the leader of our patrol, who had passed his doorway. I got off the one round that was in my rifle, bloody stupid not to have reloaded it before we'd advanced, but I knew i wouldn't have the time to do so, so I ran straight at him, screaming. He stopped, turned to face me, and I remember reversing my rifle and and hitting him in the mouth with the butt. We fell down together. I remember thinking that we were laying side by side in the dirt, I was looking into his eyes and his smashed jaw. and wasn't that silly? but when i tried to move away I found I couldn't. Then of course the boys from the patrol got him away from me, and his rifle was laying in the dirt with this bayonet stuck in me. They got the bayonet off the rifle and left it in me, and I was evacuated off to the hospital ship."