The Last Dance

It is a warm evening, deceptively calm. The evening traffic getting here is lighter than usual. The crowd at the bar is thin. A few familiar faces. I draw one of the instructor’s attention to the time – it’s past half seven and there’s no sign of the class starting. He seems shocked by the time. Like most people, he’s been caught up in a conversation about the global pandemic that seems to creep closer by the day.  It’s the reason for the reduced traffic at rush hour, the lower numbers at the bar, the hushed conversations. It’s the reason we all grab at the instructor’s little bottle of sanitizer as the class starts.

But the fear of a distant pandemic is soon washed away by the music and the dance. The effort expended on learning the new steps leaves little room for thoughts of much else. I get carried away in the beauty of the dance, the last of the work tension slipping away as the class progresses. I notice a familiar face among the spectators. I’ve seen him here a couple of times before, but I’ve seen him somewhere else as well. I have not seen him dance though. Is he good? I could use a good dance partner this evening, seeing as to how it might be my last for a while.

As the class ends, I walk over to where my bag is and grab my coupon for a drink. The familiar person I saw earlier is at the same table so we strike up a conversation. He reminds me of where I have probably seen him before and compliments me on my dancing. The social dance begins and he asks for a dance. We step onto the floor and off we go, swept into a world of music and movement. The conversation that began before the dance floor continues, but now in more than just words. Our hands, our eyes, our bodies convey messages beyond words. One dance becomes two, then three.

Is he good? Boy, is he good!

He leads and (for the most part) I follow. I laugh over my mistakes – and they are many. He graciously pauses to talk me through some of the more intricate steps. He frowns at me when I go off one way despite his signals to go the other. I smile sheepishly back and he laughs. I tell him he’s a good leader and it is not just an empty compliment. I want to follow his lead.

I joke about possibly dancing blind-folded so as to better focus on the signals his body is sending me through our joined hands. He suggests I close my eyes, and I laugh. That takes a truckload of trust, but as I think about it I realize that – in this moment – I do trust him. So I close my eyes.

It is one of the weirdest feelings ever, dancing with my eyes closed. Unable to see the dance floor, my feet, the other dancers (and they are quite a number by this time), his facial expressions. Fully relying on the signals I am receiving from his hands alone. Fully trusting him to lead me across the dance floor, around obstacles both moving and stationary. I can only maintain it for a short while and quickly open my eyes, much to his disappointment if the look on his face is anything to go by. We continue to dance anyway, him leading and me following. We swing, we sway, we spin, we laugh, we talk.

My usual departure time arrives and passes. I do not want to leave just yet. But eventually I have to go and he walks me to my car. We say our goodbyes, hoping to see each other again at the class the next week.

We do not, for the lock-down begins the next day. I am glad I got him for my last dance.