Save the Last Dance

I know that you don’t dance.

I tap out a staccato rhythm on the side of the coffee machine, swing to the cupboard for a coffee cup, then cha-cha back to fill up.

How many hours of my childhood were spent at the barre? I loved the music and rhythms, the shows and the colourful costumes. I remember the smell of hairspray and the prickly netting of tutus against the smooth satin leotards.

The music draws you into the kitchen.

“Would you like to watch a film later?” you ask.

Dirty Dancing, Strictly Ballroom, Step Up… my favourite movies. They taught me to expect a partner.

“Sure,” I reply, knowing that you mean a Bond or Bourne thriller.

Once you’ve gone, I turn the music up and spin across the tiled floor, imagining you’re there to catch me at the end. We would waltz gracefully, or tango flamboyantly, all perfectly in sync. Just like on the silver screen, where no one ever puts a foot wrong. The detailed choreography is made to look spontaneous, as if couples ever break into tap dancing outside Starbucks.

As if.

“Sorry, forgot my coffee,” you say, suddenly appearing.

I quickly turn to get some milk out of the fridge, my face flushing. Perhaps you didn’t see my hands arcing above my head, my lean backwards and the incline of my ponytail as though it’s a tight bun lined with red carnations, the colour of flamenco.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“I’m fine,” I shut the fridge door.

I know you don’t dance, so I don’t ask.