Dance Class
Creative Writing - Prose - Kindred Spirits
by Deirdre Abrahamsson
He liked her. And for that, he repulsed her. When she had to partner with him during Lindy Hop class, she could barely look at him, limply holding his clammy left hand, flinching at his right grasping her waist.
It's not that he was bad to look at necessarily. He was ok, albeit three inches too short. But it was his openness, his need, his desire that she like him back, that caused her to recoil.
"Didn't you take level one?" she asked, half sincerely, half snidely, as he stumbled his way through the basic steps, jerking instead of spinning her smoothly, two counts behind the rest of the couples.
He didn't have time to answer, as the teacher signalled to change partners again. The next guy danced smoothly, took her confidently through the movement. They held hands as they stood there watching the teacher demonstrate a new move. First the man's part, then the woman's.
She looked over at her partner. He was listening intently, shuffling his feet a bit, a step behind the teacher. Even though his skin was scarred from an earlier acne plague and he was far too skinny, she liked the look of him. She liked his longish, curlyish, black hair and light grey eyes.
He barely acknowledged her as they practiced the movement. Once without music, then to "Stomping at the Savoy." She felt comfortable in his arms. She didn't even mind his sweaty hands.
She was in a bathroom stall during the break, pulling up her stockings, when she heard some of the other ladies in the class come in.
It was the older one with the short hair and two-toned dancing shoes.
"Can you believe she said that?" she was saying. "Who does SHE think she is? She is no Ginger Rogers!"
"What a bitch," the other one said. "So pathetic. And rude."
During the Shim Sham Shimmy she didn't look at anybody, didn't even sneak a peak at curly-black-hair. Just practiced the steps to the tune of "Tuxedo Junction" – knee slap, knee slap, do the Shorty George – knowing that despite what the others said or thought, she was a good dancer.
After class, she took her time changing her shoes and putting on her coat. She could hear the others talking and laughing. They were going to the diner around the corner for coffee.
She was the last to leave. Outside, she went to catch the F train at Delancey. While waiting for the train, she saw curly-black-hair across the platform. He had his arm around a goth-looking girl dressed in a long, black coat. She was pretty, black-haired too. A D train hurtled into the station, and she watched them get on the train, and head towards Brooklyn.
Her train finally came and she quickly found a seat. She headed uptown, towards Queens, toward home.