He asked me to teach him how to slow dance. For his daughter's wedding. I fell in love in the process.
A widower needs to learn to waltz. His instructor wasn't expecting to feel anything. She felt everything.
He walked into the studio on a Tuesday.
Fifty three years old.
Grey at the temples. Hands in his pockets.
He said I need to learn to dance.
His daughter was getting married in eight weeks.
He hadn't danced since his wife died.
He said that plainly. Like reporting the weather.
I said let's start with the basics.
His right hand on my waist. My left on his shoulder.
He stepped on my foot immediately.
Sorry.
I said it's fine. Again.
He stepped on it again.
By the third lesson his feet were cooperating.
His hands were not.
They hovered. Barely touching.
Like he was afraid contact meant something he wasn't ready for.
On lesson four he finally rested his palm flat on my back.
I felt it through three layers of fabric.
We danced one full song without him stepping on anything.
He said I forgot how good it feels to hold someone. I said you're remembering. He said no. This is new.