Carmen Morales is a twenty-nine-year-old transwoman who works for an insurance broker in Orange County while attending law school at night. She and her two roommates are celebrating the successful conclusion of her spring semester when she is summoned back to the Kern County home she was kicked out of eleven years before, by the Grandmother – “Abuela” – who refused to intervene. Her father has had a stroke and is in a coma.

At Abuela’s urging, Carmen reluctantly applies to be padre’s conservator, at least on a temporary basis. Pursuant to state law, the probate court appoints an investigator to determine whether a conservator is needed and, if so, if Carmen is an appropriate choice. The investigator, an attorney and former social worker named Andar Kasparian, interviews padre’s relatives and prepares a favorable report.

Carmen is appointed conservator and immediately works to get padre’s finances in order and sort out programs for financial assistance, including workers’ compensation, social security disability, and, critically, California’s version of Medicaid. While she is doing this, she is monitoring padre’s condition, which improves – but slowly.

Weeks after she is appointed, Kasparian asks her out. She is apprehensive and nervous, in part because she is eager to re-center her life in Orange County. But she finds herself attracted to Kasparian despite her misgivings, so agrees to the date.

For a refresher on Carmen’s family tree, see this post.

Chapter 33: Steps in the Dance

Dinner and dancing? It’s almost like he . . . .

Oh.

I gave Andar a slow smile. “Someone’s been pumping my little brother for information!”

He chuckled as he came around the front of his Mustang to open my door. “Well, of course I have. You can’t make plans without good intel!”

I smiled as he handed me in, then waited until he’d come back around and into the driver’s seat to ask, “So, just what did Ximo tell you, and will I have to kill him for it?”

He hit the power and slid the car smoothly into traffic. “In his defense, I ambushed him on Monday when he stopped by to pick up Sherilynn. And all he would say is, ‘if you want to find out who Carmen is, take her dancing.’”

“I guess I can’t exactly kill him for that.”

“He also said he’d rip out my internal organs if I didn’t treat you right. Or words to that effect.”

“That, I can kill him for!”

“I hope you won’t, though. I might say the same thing, if it was one of my sisters.” He shot me a look and a smile, then turned his eyes back to the road before adding, “even though Anna probably would kill me.”

“One of your sisters? Sounds like you’re from a big family, too.”

“I’m one of six, and four of them are sisters. I never thought about it being anything but normal.” He made a right-hand turn onto a major street.

“Oldest? Youngest? Tragic middle child?”

“Oh, definitely tragic!” he laughed. “Such pathos!”

“Or drama, at least,” I teased, wanting to make him laugh some more. He had a nice laugh.

“My older sisters would say so, but” – he shot me a teasing grin of his own – “no one ever pays attention to what older sisters think!”

“Ha! Well, since you already know all my family secrets, I have to catch up some. Who’s your favorite sibling, and why?”

“No, no!” he protested. “That’s kryptonite! I mean, if it leaked, four out of five siblings would vote me off the island! Or send car bombs!”

“Now that’s drama!”

“You haven’t met them!”

“I don’t know . . . your older sisters sound pretty sensible.”

“Anna . . . yes. But I can’t think of anyone who’d call Elen sensible – including Elen!” He smiled fondly, which gave me a warm feeling. Clearly this was a man who cherished his family – and was cherished by them.

He stopped at a traffic light and met my eyes. “I’m teasing, of course. No one would give me trouble for loving Arkena best. Everyone loves Arkena best.”

“The baby?”

“Always.”

It should have been light – another tease – but something in his tone suggested something else. Something deeper. “Tell me about her.”

“She’s a lovely girl. Petite. My coloring – well, my parents’ – we all have it. And just the sweetest person you’ll ever meet.” The light changed and he moved forward, his eyes on the road.

“There’s a ‘however’ lurking in there somewhere,” I said, greatly daring.

He looked surprised, then shrugged. “Not really. What most people notice about Arkena – after her looks, of course – is that she hasn’t matured much past the level of a second grader.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “She had a seizure when she was little that cut off oxygen to her brain for a dangerously long time. But to the family? What we see is the most beautiful, innocent girl in the world.”

I touched his arm. “I’m sorry – it was rude of me to pry.”

“No, it’s alright.” He gave me a reassuring look. “Really. What happened to Arkena was a tragedy, but we just love her more.”

I decided to switch to safer ground before my toes started tickling my esophagus. “So . . . what’s for dinner?”

He let the awkwardness of my change of subject pass without so much as raising an eyebrow. “I’d tell you it’s a surprise, but that won’t work – we’re here.” He pulled into a small parking lot behind a low building in white cinderblock.

I waited for him to come around and open my door – something I normally wouldn’t have done, but given the care he had taken to get me in, I figured it was something he expected to do. Besides . . . I had to admit, it made me feel special. Cared for. I pivoted in the seat and brought both heels to the pavement, then took his offered hand and stood.

One of the advantages of taking so many dance classes was that I had no difficulty in heels of almost any height or width. The delicate three-inch spikes of my strappy black sandals were a breeze.

But Andar didn’t know that. As we made our way to the sidewalk, he moved close and put a solicitous hand just above my elbow for extra support. “The pavement’s a bit rough here.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

As we came around the side of the building, large windows looked into a restaurant that might have seated forty-five or fifty. Checkered tablecloths, sparkling glasses . . . a quick evaluation of the clientele assured me that I wasn’t overdressed. It looked busy, and the long bar opposite the windows was hopping.

I stopped a moment and inhaled deeply. “Wow! What is that smell?”

“Hmmm,” he said, his head bent close to mine. “I’m picking up . . . jasmine and . . . maybe, rose petal?”

It could have come across as creepy, but the way he’d said it — light, playful, humorous — made it impossible to take it that way. He managed to convey awareness, even appreciation, without innuendo or pressure.

“Smooth!” I said, with a chuckle I couldn’t restrain. “Come on, now – I’m hungry!”

He laughed and urged me forward. The sign out front said “The Fabulous Fleece,” which struck me as an odd name.

“French Basque,” he said, anticipating my question. “This place has been here for fifty years and three generations.”

I had to shake my head. It just wasn’t the Bakersfield that I remembered – even though the restaurant had been here long before I’d been born. I remembered señor Cortez’ words: Places like this were here, even then. But you didn’t know to look for them.

Andar held the door for me – naturally – and I stepped inside, reveling in the rich mix of smells coming from the kitchen.

The host guided us to a cozy table for two by the window and held out my chair for me. Once we took our seats, he handed me a menu, then handed a second menu and a wine list to Andar before making a discreet exit.

Andar didn’t look especially phased by the subtle sexism . . . nor, honestly, was I. I’m not blind to the ways “chivalry” can cover or excuse treating women like pampered playthings. But I don’t pick silly fights, and there are times when it feels good to be a bit pampered.

“The window’s nice,” he said. “But four lanes of traffic isn’t exactly a romantic prospect!”

Any window in this city was going to be stuck with a view of Bakersfield; that couldn’t be helped. I decided to focus on the word “romantic” and not allow geography to bug me. The vibes he was giving off — so very different from our prior interactions! — were giving me a warm and unfamiliar feeling in my chest.

Fixing my eyes on my dinner partner and matching his playful tone, I said, “I’ve got no complaints about the view.”

His slow smile matched mine. “Nor do I.” He reached over and covered my hand. “I’m so glad you came.”

His touch was electric. Rather than answer, I rotated my hand so that our palms touched and gently ran my thumb over his. You are interested? I am interested, too.

“Good evening, Madam . . . Monsieur.” The man in the dark tunic and starched white apron was our age, but acting every inch the urbane waiter. “My name is Antton, and I’ll be taking care of you this evening. Would you like to start with an aperitif, or perhaps a glass of wine?”

Andar looked at me expectantly. I suddenly wished I had Katie’s encyclopedic knowledge of all things alcoholic, but then Kelsey’s voice echoed in my head: You think too much. I gave Antton what I hoped was a winning smile and said, “What would you recommend? Do you have a special Basque cocktail?”

“We have a lovely Picon Punch,” he assured me. “Or perhaps you might enjoy a Marianito?”

Neither name meant anything to me, but I decided that “punch” sounded appropriately summery, so I went with that.

“Very good, Madam,” he said approvingly. “And for you, Monsieur?”

Andar gave a tiny shake of his head. “Just a Club Soda for now, thank you.”

“Of course, sir.” Antton vanished back toward the kitchen.

Andar interpreted my look as a question. “I want to have a glass of wine with dinner, and I’m driving. I don’t want to face your brother’s wrath!”

“Even Ximo wouldn’t deny you a cocktail.” I liked that our hands were still joined.

“Probably not,” he agreed. “But I’m careful about things like that. Besides — if you’re as good a dancer as Ximo suggested, I’m going to need steady feet!”

“What kind of dancing did you have in mind?”

His smile was disarming. “I’m really hoping you know swing, because that’s about all I’ve learned.”

In all honesty, I hadn’t done a lot of swing dancing, but that had more to do with a lack of partners than a lack of interest on my part. Its unique blend of athleticism, sensuality and pure playfulness was great fun, but you really have to click with your partner to make it work.

I gave his hand a squeeze. “Perfect!”

“What got you into dancing?”

I laughed. “One of my roommates is a real party animal. I learned early on that I could avoid conversations if I danced instead.”

That was true . . . as far as it went. But I also danced as a way to learn my new body — its balance, its center of gravity, its rhythm. To learn it, and to learn to accept it. Even to love it. But I didn’t want to share that. Not right now.

Andar knew I was trans. But unlike, for example, Brian Braddock, he gave no indication that he thought of me as anything other than a woman. From the moment he’d picked me up, he’d made me feel intensely feminine, and I didn’t want to say anything that broke that spell.

If he had any idea that my answer was less than complete, he didn’t show it. “I can see that — though you haven’t exactly struck me as a shrinking violet.”

I was spared having to respond by Antton returning with our drinks. He also set down a small plate with two skewers, each holding a mix of green olives and peppers. “Compliments of the chef,” he explained. “If madam wants to experience more of the Basque culture, our pintxos are classic. These are Gilda Pintxos, with manzanilla olives, guidilla peppers and anchovy filet. But you can make an entire meal from our pintxos menu.”

“Is it similar to Spanish tapas?” I asked, delighted.

“Mais non!” Unusually, Antton stepped out of his formal character and grinned. “Tapas is similar to pintxos!”

He vanished again, and I had no trouble convincing Andar that sharing a bunch of tapas — fine, pintxos! — was the best possible way to eat. Going through the menu, we each chose three so we would be ready when Antton returned.

The Gilda Pintxos were a bit salty for my taste, but I loved the Picon Punch — an interesting mix of bittersweet orange, with brandy adding dryness.

I turned the conversation back to Andar. “When did you start swing dancing, and why?”

“You won’t fault me for the truth?”

I chuckled — okay, giggled — at his expression. “Good way to pick up chicks?”

“Well, sure. Not that I don’t appreciate all aspects of culture, you understand!”

“How long have you been dancing?”

“I haven’t, much, since I moved back to Bakersfield. It’s mostly something I did when I was in law school, and for a couple years after that.”

“Not much opportunity here?” I asked, sympathetically.

He shook his head. “No, no. Bakersfield isn’t as bad as you think – really! – and there’s a swing dance group that meets regularly. That’s where we’re going tonight, actually. But . . . I’ve been busy getting established in practice. You know how that is.”

There was just enough of a defensive note in his voice to get me wondering. He sounded like I had, a few moments earlier – like he was telling me the truth, just not all of it.

I decided to see if he might share more. “I do, but . . . how does a nice guy like you pick up chicks if he isn’t dancing?”

“Well . . . .” He looked embarrassed. “I kind of came back to Bakersfield after a bad breakup, and I haven’t wanted . . . well.” He struggled for a way to end the sentence.

I reached back over and gave his hand another squeeze. “Andar . . . if you aren’t married, or seeing anyone else right now, these aren’t things we need to talk about tonight.”

“Thank you.” He brushed a finger across the top of my hand. “It’s ‘no’ to both. I’ll just say, I learned swing dancing with a woman I knew in law school, and we got engaged and lived together for two years after we graduated. It didn’t work, and we split up.”

I winced. “The dancing won’t bother you? Bring back bad memories?”

“No!” He shook his head, smiling. “Those were the good memories!”

“Okay, then.” I returned his smile. “Dancing it is – and we’re all done with skeletons and closets for the evening!”

To my surprise – and delight! – he raised my hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. “I knew I liked you.”

I wanted to melt.

Antton returned with uncannily good timing, so we ordered our pintxos and glasses of wine. Once he went off to the kitchen, I deliberately changed the subject. “So, let’s see if I have this right. You have at least two older sisters, Anna and Elen. Your youngest sibling is another sister, Arkena. That leaves a brother and one more sister, right?”

He nodded. “Right. Anna’s the eldest, then Elen, then me. After me, it’s Erik, then Mary, then Arkena.”

“So you must have a bunch of nieces and nephews, I’m guessing.”

“Oh, yes! And the way Anna’s girls are maturing, I’m surprised I don’t have any grand-nieces or nephews. Anna and Elen have three each and Mary has two so far. Erik and I are the laggards.”

Thinking of my own clan, I said, “Do they all live close?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “Nooo. Well . . . I mean, they all live close to each other. I’m the only one who moved away.”

I was confused, and probably looked it. “I’m sorry, I thought you said you moved back to Bakersfield after law school.”

“I did,” he explained. “I went to college here, and this is where I did my social work. But I grew up in Glendale.”

I blurted out, “Glendale???” As in, an hour north of where I live? Right up the 5? I had to remember to close my gaping mouth.

“Well, yeah. Probably the biggest Armenian population in America. Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Andar, this is going to sound stupid, and probably even bigoted, but I just had it in my head that you were, like, a Bakersfield guy. As tied to this place as my own family.”

He laughed. “You do make it sound like a leper colony.”

“I don’t mean it that way, it’s just . . . .” I tapered off, trying to figure out how to explain.

He shook his head, looking at me fondly. “I understand. Really. For me, Bakersfield was the place I went to get away from my family. To strike out on my own, you know? Cal State Bakersfield is a good school, but I mostly chose it because it gave me some distance. Like Santa Ana does for you.”

“But it sounds like you like your family.”

“I do. And I like them better – a lot better – because I got away when I needed to. Aren’t you finding the same thing?”

“Well . . . it’s not like I had a lot of choice. Not about leaving, and not about coming back.”

“I guess not. It sounds like you aren’t tempted to stay?” His tone was light, and casual.

And, just maybe, deceptive.

“No,” I said quietly, looking down to where his hand still rested on mine. “I like my life down south.”

He raised his hand up and gently brushed my cheek. “We don’t need to talk about this tonight, either, Carmen.”

I looked up again, to see warmth and understanding in his eyes. “Basta a cada día su propio mal.”

“Now, you’ve shot past my high school Spanish.” He smiled.

“My tia was always throwing Bible verses at us. That one boils down to, ‘don’t borrow trouble.’”

“Wise woman.”

“I never thought so, back when . . . but lately, I’ve been rethinking that one.”

“Well, I can definitely get behind ‘don’t borrow trouble.’ I also recommend against leasing it with an option to buy.”

That made me smile. “Thank you. Everyone tells me I think too much. And worry too much.”

His eyes twinkled. “Another reason to love dancing?”

“Absolutely – it’s one of the few things I know how to do that gets me completely out of my own head.”

“Have you ever tried sky diving?”

“What??? No!!!”

“Yeah, me neither.” He grinned.

With that, the food started to arrive, and we switched our conversation to the safe topic of food. Safe, and in this case interesting, since the flavor combinations were different and delicious.

“Oooh! Okay,” I said excitedly. “You have to take a sip of the Malbec just after you have a bite of the solomillo!”

He followed suit and grinned appreciatively. “Good catch! Don’t miss out on the grilled shrimp, though, or I’ll eat them all.”

“Ha!” I said, snatching the second skewer and waved it at him triumphantly.

“I let you win!”

“Did not,” I giggled. “Besides, you sound like Kelsey.”

“Maybe. But you know, when you have five siblings, you learn how to be ruthless at the dinner table.”

I started to say something witty, when my hand suddenly shook and I dropped the skewer on the table.

No, there’d been no ruthlessness at dinnertime in padre’s house, but it had taken me weeks to stop stealing food at Sister Catalina’s shelter. Weeks before I’d been certain — really certain — that I could simply trust that there would be food the next day, and the day after that.

A year of being hungry doesn’t just go away with a full stomach.

Andar looked like he was about to say something light and humorous – probably about my clumsiness – when he noticed my expression. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” I said, annoyed at having broken the mood. “Just a bad memory.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

I shook my head. “It’s nothing. Really!”

Sensing my determination, he picked up the shrimp, took it off its skewer, and leaned across the table to put it right in front of my mouth. “Then unless you have a bad memory of being attacked by killer shrimp, you have to try this!”

I opened just wide enough to bring the shrimp inside my lips, then I kissed his fingertips. “I knew I liked you.”

We passed on desert. We even passed on after-dinner coffee, though it smelled heavenly. I had a burning desire to find myself in Andar’s arms.

He seemed to feel the same way.

As we soundlessly pulled out of the parking lot in his stealthy Mustang, I asked him about the swing dance group, trying to get a little intel before stepping into the middle of it.

“I haven’t gone very often, and of course they were shut down for almost two years during the pandemic. But they’re a good group of people. They usually get together three or four times a year, so we lucked out on timing.”

“I’d say! How many people are in it?”

“On any given night, there might be twenty five or thirty people. A mix of ages, too – I was surprised, a bit, by how many younger people came.” He shot me a smile. “Of course, it won’t be like clubbing in Orange County!”

I laughed. “Even in Orange County, the crowds usually end up in places where people are just pressing flesh and hopping up and down with the beat.”

“Not your scene? You seem like you might be a bit of an introvert.”

“Me? Oh, yeah! My roommates give me a lot of grief about that – how I’d curl up with a good book every night of the week if I got the chance. But . . . dancing’s different. People don’t bother me when I’m dancing. Nothing bothers me when I’m dancing!”

“So, you don’t object to hopping around and pressing the flesh,” he teased.

But I shook my head. “Sometimes, it’s just what I need. Just what anyone needs.”

“Interesting.” He stopped at a light and took the opportunity to give me a longer look. “You surprise me.”

“I’m not saying it’s my usual preference. There are times when I just want to shut my brain down altogether.” I met his eyes and smiled slowly. “For the record, counselor – this is not one of those times.”

His lips parted as he smiled back. “Oh, good. But I left my lawyer hat at the office tonight.”

I cocked my head, considering. “You look good without it.”

That earned me a chuckle and a quick hand squeeze before he had to return his attention to the road.

Apparently the swing dancing club was meeting in the banquet room of a local Chinese restaurant. “Maybe not the most romantic location,” Andar apologized. “But it’s got plenty of space once they push the tables against the walls. Swing needs a bit of room!”

“I’m sure it’ll be perfect,” I assured him.

“Especially since nothing bothers you when you’re dancing?”

“Well, yeah. For sure, I don’t get worked up about the wallpaper!”

We parked and went inside, making our way past large groups of people, mostly Anglos, many with children, enjoying a classic American suburban take on far eastern cuisine – dishes like Orange Chicken, Chop Suey, and Egg Rolls. While the menu had very few choices that might actually be eaten in China, I’d grown up thinking of this type of buffet food as incredibly exotic. Uncle Augui used to bring his family to a similar place for special occasions like birthdays; sometimes I’d gotten to tag along. I pulled Andar close enough to whisper, “This is the Bakersfield I remember!”

He grinned, but probably out of kindness to our hosts and their patrons, refrained from answering.

Just inside the door to the banquet room, a woman sat at a table, checking tickets. Spikey white hair and sparkling blue eyes, her whole face lit up when we walked in. “Andar! I was so excited when I saw you’d bought tickets — we haven’t seen you in forever. And you brought a partner, too!”

“Hi, Mary Grace!” He gave her a big smile, showing all his teeth. “Good to see you! This is Carmen Morales; Carmen, this is Mary Grace Lester, Bakersfield’s best swing dance instructor.”

“Smooth, as always,” she laughed. “Go on, now — the first set’s going to start in just a minute. You’ve probably got just enough time to get a drink first.”

A four-piece jazz ensemble was warming up in a corner of the room, while other couples stood in clumps, chatting and looking relaxed. Andar exchanged greetings with some of them as we made our way to a table where I could leave my cardigan and my purse. He introduced me to a few people as well, and everyone seemed very welcoming.

We’d just claimed our spot when a man who looked like he could moonlight as a Department Store Santa took the mic. “Good evening, folks! It’s so good to be with you all again! Douggie, Brett, Sally and I love to share that old-time sound with a new generation of enthusiasts. So let’s get started with a few classics from the Fifties, perfect examples of hard bop jazz!” He turned to his colleagues and set the beat, launching into a piece with a nice, easy, up-beat rhythm.

Andar looked at me, quirked an eyebrow, and held out both hands at waist level.

I smiled and put my hands over his. Much as I wanted to be in the closed position, we’d never danced together before and the open position makes it easier to learn your partner’s style. Swing dance isn’t hard, exactly, but it only looks good when the leader and follower are in sync.

The music was well-suited to East Coast Swing, so I wasn’t surprised when he moved lightly into the rhythm of triple step, triple step, and rock step. His footwork was graceful and his hands felt solid and assured.

My smile got bigger.

He brought his right hand up, fingers pointing outward, subtly but unmistakably, and I broke contact with his left hand to move into an outside turn. Then he reversed the motion, leading to an inside turn that ended with our hands back together. His arm motion was economical, keeping our joined hands close to the crown of my head as I pivoted under them.

One by one, he gave me signals — a curl; a cuddle. A roll in and out. A free spin. We didn’t get everything right; some of his signals were a bit different than the ones I’d experienced. But we laughed through the missteps, tried them again, and started smoothing out the rough spots.

In the third dance, as he spun me out of the cuddle, he kept me close, shifting to the closed position with his right hand resting lightly on my bare shoulder blade. Despite the light pressure, his touch felt alive. Warm. Compelling. Rather than moving my hand straight to his shoulder in response, I slid it slowly up his chest until it reached the resting position, delighting in the reaction I saw in his eyes.

The visual cues are harder to pick up in the closed position, so touch is even more critical. I had to sense the most minute changes of his posture and the pressure from his hands. His body became more vivid to me, while my own skin tingled with every contact. I was acutely aware of the heel of his palm resting under my left arm, just a pulse away from my breast.

He raised my left hand with his right and moved in front of me, initiating the leader’s waist break, and I caressed his lower back with my right hand as I slipped to his other side, giving him the sensory cue on where to find my hand again when he completed the move.

He turned back to face me then began a curl which ended with both of his hands on my shoulder blades. I bent backward into the dip, one hand anchored on his back, raising my free leg in a tight “v,” my toe almost over my other knee.

Our eyes locked and he bent over me, coming close . . . so close I could almost feel his breath. At the last minute, and still on the beat, he brought me back upright as the piece ended.

My heart was thudding in my chest and I seemed to need more air than I would have expected just from the exertion of dancing.

His eyes hadn’t left me. They still held a smile, but there was more there as well. I was sure of it.

Well, almost sure. As soon as the thought hit me, my mind kicked in and balked, all my insecurities rising back up.

Unfortunately – or maybe fortunately! – the bandleader announced that the group was going to take a short break, and Mary Grace took the mic and acted as DJ, playing some recorded music. “Here’s a chance for all of you to break out your West Coast Swing moves!”

Her music choices were a bit more contemporary and eclectic, more suited to the looser style. The structure of West Coast Swing favors the open position, but it doesn’t matter as much since the partners come together in some form in the middle of every six- or eight- count standard pattern.

Once again we learned each other’s moves. Andar led me through the Sugar Push and the passes left and right, inside and outside turns, a series of whips – Car-Wash, Reverse, Crossbow – and more. Once we were sure of each other, he branched out with some non-standard patterns, too.

The band returned for their second set and we went back to the East Coast Swing. Each dance, each series of moves, seemed to bring us closer and closer into sync.

When the band finished the set we decided to take a short break and have something cold to drink. But as we got to the table where they’d set out some beverages, Mary Grace started playing another piece.

As soon as I heard the intro bars I pulled away, grinning, and held out my hands, wriggling my fingers in a playful invitation. Then I sang along as the song began. “Oh don’t you dare look back, Just keep your eyes on me!”

He took my hands, laughing, and sang, “I said ‘You’re holding back!” His voice was low and intoxicating. Full of humor and excitement and challenge.

I took two steps forward and sang, “Shut up and dance with me!”

He initiated an Apache whip, pulling me close and moving my right hand behind my back to pass to his right hand. His arms circling me, our chests pressed together, he bent his head to whisper the lyric in my ear, “This woman is my destiny.”

I finished my move in time to anchor, lean forward and sing, “Ooh-ooh, shut up and dance with me!”

We were close, completely in sync, each movement fluid, each pass perfect. Each touch its own song, each glance a sonnet, as the music rolled on.

We were victims of the night –
The chemical, physical kryptonite,
Helpless to the bass and the fading light.
Oh, we were bound to get together,
Bound to get together!

She took my arm –
I don’t know how it happened.
We took the floor and she said,

"Oh, don't you dare look back,
Just keep your eyes on me"
I said, "You're holding back."
She said, "Shut up and dance with me!"

This woman is my destiny!
She said, "Ooh-ooh, hoo, shut up and dance with me!”

As the song came to its triumphant conclusion he signaled and I surged off my feet and into his arms. Deftly, surely, he held me in a spin, his right hand firm against the muscles of my lower back, his left behind my knee, which I raised and bent, clamping his support in place. As the spin slowed, I let go of his neck, trusting him completely, and arched my back until my shoulders were parallel to the dancefloor and I could see the room and the rest of the dancers, upside-down, whirling.

He held me there, motionless, my arms outstretched to embrace the moment, as the music came to an end. I couldn’t hear anything except the stampeding thunder of my own heart.

We were both breathing heavily as he brought me back to my feet, and my knees felt too weak to take my weight. He held me close, resting his forehead against mine, and whispered, “Oh. My. God. I think I owe your brother a beer. I might owe him a brewery.”

I smiled. “Maybe I won’t kill him.”

That’s when he finally kissed me. Powerfully. Fiercely. Urgently. I felt more alive in that moment than I’d ever been before.

Musical coda: Shut Up and Dance With Me

— To be continued

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