Stepping Out

On the way to the bar, I spotted her out of the corner of my eye, and something triggered me to ask her if she’d like to dance. Her dimpled, shy smile of affirmation and the gentle sway of her hips as she led the way to the dance floor, made me thank my instincts.

Standing a few feet apart, we shook and dipped to the music. I had become entranced by her shimmering, long hair, whipping in the flashing lights, when she started some new dance steps. She’d slide sideways and then flex her knees as if hitting a rigid bump. I started to mimic the movement, but she had changed to circling round and round with small steps as if going up a helix stairway. I reciprocated and bent down, trying to get a look into her shy eyes under the long lashes. I caught her attention when I stood face to face and made rowing motions with my arms. She did the same with a suspicious sparkle in her eyes, and then started bouncing to the music as if in a car going airborne over steep hills.

Feeling more confident, I tried the motorcycle throttle twist to hand-to-hand prayer movement. With a wink of acknowledgment, she kicked off her shoes and seemed to walk in place as if on a grassy treadmill, pausing now and then to pick an imaginary flower. The band switched to a ballad, and we willingly embraced, now more sure of ourselves. A sweet fragrance rose from the moist warmth below her ear and I whispered, “Your dancing is a hatless rat’s ass in a forest fire.” She responded by placing her hands at her ears to do a killer imitation of the cute dinosaur that eats the fat guy in "Jurassic Park", pulled me closer and sighed, “Endearment prevails upon the terrene planet to circumvolve”.

Losing control, I started kneading her doughy cheeks as if they were puff pastry while murmuring, “You’ve made this song my choice for any fatal collision.” She turned up her face with a look of recognition and blurted out, “Carry me home on your arms.” She broke away and in a swirl tugged off her top. Seeing what was under, I struggled to remove my shirt. Our crescent-emblazoned, T-shirts shone white as we left, arm in arm, and I was feeling thankful we hadn’t attempted the tattoo contortionist moves of the halfbakery dance.