“You dance like me,” she said on the way out of the bar.
It was the first time we’d danced. The first time I’d danced, period, in a long time. I always forget how much I like it. That feeling that I’m someone much badder or wilder or sexier, just because it’s dark and I’m waving my arms in the air (but not like I don’t care, because I do. I always care. It is my downfall).
“How do you dance?” I asked. Although I’d just watched her: a shoulder-y, knees-bent, mellow-but-still-enthusiastic style. I considered my own style. “I think I put a lot of arms in there.”
“Yeah, usually I do too, so I had to tone it down a little.” Maybe this was like her thing about not wanting to order the same dish at restaurants. Two people eating the same omelet and dancing the same dance is just too unoriginal. I think anyone with a sibling can relate to that position.
But she can swing and salsa and two-step. No chance of me copying that.
“Only if someone leads me, though,” she said.
All my attempts at partner-dancing came flooding back to me—the spidery hands of Chris, my seventh grade square dancing partner; the time Jenessa’s friend Todd tried to teach me to swing dance while waiting in line at Knott’s Scary Farm; the awkward salsa lessons I endured at Bally’s because they were one-fourth of a hip-hop/salsa class, the hip-hop component of which rocked.
It’s weird, we both agreed, dating a full-on girl. But what if my past partner-dancing experiences only sucked because I was following? Maybe I was meant to lead this whole time. I mean, I just knew that guy in my salsa class was tu