Let’s dance.
“Go stag.” It’s the advice I take when attending my work’s annual spring gala. Arriving at the luxury hotel, I note the attendees are dressed in black-and-white attire. I inspect my light blue shirt and red tie nestled within my charcoal gray suit. I want to punch myself for not reviewing the dress code, but I decide it’s alright to stand out. As a new employee at the medical center, flying solo, and looking for love, it’s best to stand out.
I look for friends and acquaintances in the sea of tuxedos but it seems like I’m the only person I know. Where are my coworkers from the clinic or my colleagues from the lunchtime lectures? In a subdued panic, I take a looping stroll around the ballroom to search for someone I recognize.
“Hey!” I screech, pointing to a girl I met at an icebreaker event.
“Hey, Adam,” she says.
I clear my throat, “You’re…” trying to recall her icebreaker name, “Jumping–”
“Jenny! ‘Jumping’ Jenny,” she reminds me. “Are you looking for a table? You can have a seat next to my friend –”
I try to catch her name but my vision is hooked on her radiant eyes buttressed by subtle cheekbones and long dark hair. She sits with upright posture, wearing a black-and-white floral patterned dress that compliments her toned figure. Next to Jenny, I note the contrast between a girl and a woman. I take a deep breath, “Hello, I’m Adam like the apple.”
I talk with Joyce and discover we’re in our early thirties, enjoy karaoke, and take delight in appraising the night’s dinner menu. The conversation is light and capricious. I sense connection, however, it’s too early to set anchor. There will be more women around the corner.
I choose to explore my options. While waiting for my whiskey-ginger at the bar, I socialize with new faces, hoping to meet another Joyce at the gala. There are potentials but all of them have ring-fingers sheathed in diamonds. I walk back to the ballroom and note the guests flocking to the dance floor. Once it’s packed, I cut through the middle to find a partner but everyone is paired up, that is, except for Jenny and Joyce. I join in and dance with them.
I danced for years in my bedroom while grooving to Michael Jackson and MC Hammer cassette tapes. But it was my final year in middle school when I first went public. I was at a friend’s birthday party when the DJ started playing the Bee Gee’s Stayin’ Alive. The funky guitar riffs and ultra-high-pitched singing summoned me like a zombie thirsting for flesh. Recounting John Travolta’s light-up floor choreography, I thrust my hands to the air and shook my pelvis with the wind. Looking up from the turntables, the slack-jawed DJ said, “That kid’s got moves!”
That’s right, I got moves. But the title has an asterisk because it’s true when dancing solo. Add a partner to the mix and my coordination loses its footing. It’s like watching a Transformer blow up the Manhattan skyline then shapeshift into a toddler’s tricycle.
We’re dancing when the music slows and a hopping Mexicali tune with bongo beats sings through the speakers. As people pair up, I see Joyce and take a step forward. I press my right hand on her hip and take her left hand into mine, “Let’s dance.”
We sway with the rhythm. Shuffling our feet left then right. A pocket of space opens between us and with a quarter turn of her wrist, Joyce spins. We’re back in sync, I pull her closer until we’re thigh-to-thigh then hip-to-hip, walking on the same line but in opposite directions. I look up and we’re locked in a gaze, a Zen-like concentration takes over. No need to think, just do. Then, right on beat, we reverse directions.
Leading hand on each other’s hips, I feel a grasp from Joyce as she lifts my wrist to her neck. She dips under our arm bridge, takes a step forward, spins, and we’re face-to-face again. Previous dances with women have felt like an audition, but tonight is a private performance. The ballroom’s periphery fades into darkness, our night sky. The spotlight, our sun. And our steps, our constellation.
The connection is there but to know its magnetism I let go. Releasing my hold, Joyce drifts into the ether, waiting for a signal from central command. I look into Joyce’s eyes and extend my arm towards her, signaling a path towards re-entry. Sweeping my lead leg through the distance that separates us, I start my revolution into her orbit. When her outline comes into view, I transfer my momentum into her lead hand. I step away as she twirls twice then I step in close to brace her fall. She lands in my arms, the song ends, and the house lights go up.
I leave the dancefloor bewildered: after thirty-two years, did I have my first legitimate partner dance? I try to shake off the awe and converse with others, but a gravitational force keeps me bound to Joyce. As the gala ends, we reconnect and walk side-by-side towards the exit. Along the way, we see our medical director who says, “You guys have awesome dance skills!”
And around the corner, we run into the chief hospital administrator, “Great dancing, you two.”
Seems like everyone noticed our dance, I’m sure Joyce did too. I hug her goodbye, wondering how our futures will align. Tonight, however, I know our cosmic connection is set in the stars.