by Tonya Plank
“Sasha?” she asked, looking up at me, widening her eyes as if she knew I was up to something.
Sadie could be trusted. I looked at the ballerina’s table. She wasn’t there. But her boyfriend had just returned, with two glasses of red wine. He looked out at the floor. She must have been asked to dance by someone else.
I glanced around to make sure no one was looking. A wolfish grin crossed Sadie’s face ever so briefly. I loved this woman. She understood me. “Over there,” I said. “That man who is just now sitting down, with the brown hair and glasses.”
She nodded.
“I need you to find out his name. I think the nameplates are on the tables.”
She nodded. “You want me to pull his name as winner, no?” she said, with a crooked smile, which I returned. “Don’t worry. I do for you, Sasha.” Unlike me, she spoke with a distinct accent. I opened my mouth but she spoke. “I know. I rock.”
I laughed. I guess I’d said that to her more than a few times.
I followed Xenia out to the floor. The band was now playing a slow rumba. Good, easy to dance. All you needed to teach the guest was a basic box step and turn her a few times. It was easy to catch on. Leave it to Xenia; she’d found the most handsome be-suited man in the place to ask to dance. I looked back at the ballerina’s table, wondering where she was. An older, pretty, and very bored-looking woman sat across from the ballerina’s boyfriend. Neither of them appeared too happy. I walked up to the woman and placed my hand gently on the back of her chair. At first she seemed startled, then she turned around and caught my eyes. The bored expression evaporated at once. She flashed me a slight smile and giggled. It seemed as if she couldn’t smile too broadly, as her skin appeared to be stretched, and her lips looked fairly inelastic. But she seemed happy to dance with me. I nodded and held my hand out toward her. She giggled and took it. She had the whitest teeth I’d ever seen. Her hand was ice-cold and clammy. I could tell she was nervous.
As I led her to the floor, I spotted her. My ballerina. I was right. Someone had asked her to dance. Someone quite horrid, I might add. The man was clearly drunk. He was laughing but yelling something at her I couldn’t hear. She looked very confused. He held his hand, which was madly grasping hers, in the air but at a scary angle. That asshole could break her wrist. Finally she darted underneath his raised arm, smacking her head straight into the guy’s sweaty armpit.
“Right, atta girl,” the guy yelled, laughing.
Of course, she held herself regally, with the air of a princess. Her free arm extended out into a beautiful port de bras, her fingers completing the line at the end, looking as if she were holding a teacup. Definitely a dancer. She wasn’t trying to look good, to call attention to herself with this bonehead, mind you. She just did so naturally. It was second nature to her, as a dancer.
Then he let go of her hand and spun her around by the waist. I almost lost it. But she shifted her weight to one foot, curled the other around her standing ankle and maintained her balance, spinning on the ball of her shoe, without kicking him. My suspicions were completely confirmed. Someone with no dance background would have ended up flat on the floor, probably after tripping the guy. Which he deserved.
“Yeah!!!” the guy said as he stopped her and pulled her fast toward him.
Crisis averted, I took the woman I was with to the center of the room, not far from the ballerina and the drunk guy. It was perfect—this woman could feel that she was the center of attention and I could make sure the ballerina didn’t get hurt. I turned to my partner and put my arm around her back, taking her other hand in mine. She gazed up at me. Her smile wasn’t broad but she looked delighted. I smiled down at her, keeping one eye on my ballerina.
“Okay, now diiiiip,” the drunk guy yelled. He was bending to his side, considerable ass in the air, pushing the ballerina down by the shoulders.
“Excuse…” I started to say to my partner, beginning to release her. But the ballerina realized what he wanted and arched her back, lifting one leg beautifully in the air. She hadn’t known, of course, that she was going to be dipped in such a manner, and I glimpsed pink lace peeking out from under her skirt. Her thighs were creamy and toned. I looked away. I couldn’t be thinking about what all was underneath that skirt. She wasn’t mine.
Thank God the music stopped just then.
“Hey man, I’ll take it from here. Appreciate it though.” It was her boyfriend, tapping the drunk guy on the back.
What the hell took him so long? I thought. The ballerina stood upright and brushed her hands down over her skirt, obviously embarrassed.
I turned toward my partner, not wanting the ballerina to know I’d seen. My partner was now frowning, eyes darting between mine and the action next to us.
“I’m sorry I got distracted,” I said with a little laugh. That did the trick. Her shy smile returned, along with a blush. I took her hand and wrapped my arm around her back again. The band began Sinatra’s “My Way,” a waltz. I led her into a basic step. She wasn’t a dancer. Her feet were all over mine. I glanced back at the ballerina. Her boyfriend was simply rocking her back and forth, from side to side. Even though they weren’t doing any kind of a dance step, whenever he picked his feet up, he’d place them down right atop hers. I could tell she was in pain from the look on her faux-smile-covered face.
Suddenly, I felt my toe get ice-picked. My partner’s stiletto. She’d stepped pretty hard. I returned my gaze to her. She still wore a smile but it now looked rather plastic. I wondered briefly if she’d meant to do that on purpose because I was looking at another woman. No, that would be ridiculous, I told myself. I’d known this woman for approximately two minutes; she couldn’t possibly be jealous.
As soon as the woman got the gist of the basic, I led her around the floor a little since this was a traveling dance. She managed not to step on my feet for the rest of the song, and I managed not to look back at my ballerina, sensing she was slightly better off in this guy’s arms.
The number ended, and I was hoping my ballerina and her boyfriend would return to their table so I could ask her to dance. But they remained on the floor, appearing to have some kind of discussion.
“Thank you so much,” I said to my partner. I began to lead her off the floor but she didn’t want to budge. Her lips formed a solid line. She gripped my fingers. “Ah,” I began. We were supposed to dance with as many people as we could, so as not to show favoritism. Not that rules couldn’t ever be broken, but I had no desire to go another round with this oddly possessive woman.
“Cheryl, my dear, come, come.” Fortunately, a be-suited man was relieving me of my duties. “Thank you, kind sir. But I’ll take it from here,” he said to me in what seemed to be a faux British accent. “You did very good with her though.”
She continued to look at me and grasp my hand for several seconds longer before finally letting go and, it seemed, giving in to him. I thanked her again for the dance, but she turned away, a sad look in her eyes. What was up with these women, these lawyers, or wives of lawyers? Were they all so sad?
I looked back at my ballerina and her boyfriend. They were barely moving; he was chatting away but she was looking right at me. The second our eyes met, she looked away, like she didn’t want to be caught. I understood. She was with another man. For the time being anyway.
She so closely resembled my sister, Tatiana, it threw me. Tanya had no dance background, but they had such similar faces, bodies. But it was more than just their surface looks. It was their personalities, the way they moved, the way they inhabited space. They were both delicate, vulnerable, worthy of so much more of the world. I had no idea what Tatiana was enduring; I didn’t even know if she was still alive. God, I had to believe she was. I had to. I had to find her and get her back. If it was the last thing I did. But this beautiful girl—in some strange way I felt like she was going to help me find my sister. Even if it was simply that she would give me the emotional connection to my sister that I’d lost.
Ou
r eyes caught again, and again she quickly looked back to her boyfriend. I was making her uncomfortable. I turned away, approached another seated woman, and extended my hand to her. She accepted with a blushing grin. I led her to a position close to my ballerina. I couldn’t help it.
But before the song ended, the ballerina and her boyfriend left the floor and returned to their table. I caught her glancing over her shoulder at me on her way. Twice. Once she was seated, the boyfriend pushed her chair toward the table, patted her on the shoulder and walked off. What a complete loser, I thought. To leave such a woman all alone, again. She looked around the room, now fidgeting with a strand of pearls around her neck. Each time she caught my eye, she quickly looked away. She should’ve known by now she simply wasn’t going to catch me averting my gaze from her.
The song seemed to go on forever, but finally it ended. I thanked the woman I was with, and bowed to her, before leading her back to her table. After I seated her, I looked back at the ballerina. Her beau still had not returned. I began to walk toward her when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder blade.
“Excuse me, could you please take my wife for a spin out there? She’s been admiring you all night,” said an elderly gentleman with a wide, excited smile.
His wife was a white-haired, diminutive but genteel lady, with a hunched over back and a little tremor extending from her shoulder to her fingers. She looked sweetly excited as she reached out to me.
“Of course,” I said, taking her trembling hand, now hoping Sadie had been successful with her mission. That seemed to be the only way I was going to be able to dance with my beauty.
The music happened to be a swing, and even though I slowed our rhythm to half time and took tiny steps, she was out of breath after the second measure.
“Dear, I think I’m going to have to sit this one out. Maybe a slower song?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said again, giving her a gentle pat on her back and leading her, with my arm wrapped around her waist—I didn’t want her to fall—back to her table.
As soon as the lady was safely seated, I thanked her again. Never having taken one eye completely off my ballerina, I knew that her boyfriend hadn’t yet returned to her table. I was now behind her, gazing at the back of her lovely head. A perfect view from which to observe. Her sun-colored hair was radiant; it cascaded down her back, ending a little past the bottom edge of her shoulder blade. So, long enough to fit into a bun, making me wonder how many years it had been since she danced. The back of her peach dress was cut low, and when she brushed her hair, self-consciously, draping it over one side of her neck, she revealed the top of the most glorious shoulder blade. Her skin was slightly tanned and looked like white honey. I imagined how it would feel to touch that creamy skin. I saw out of the corner of my eye her boyfriend being handed two glasses of wine from the bartender. He’d be returning. I had to get to her.
I walked up slowly behind her, approaching her cautiously. As if sensing me there, she began to turn her head slightly in my direction, right before I placed a finger on her shoulder. I made sure to touch where the material covered her skin. She jumped a tiny bit, and gave me a sideways glance.
Her eyes were beautiful, beatific. Light green, the color of dreamlike jade, innocent, doe eyes. She blinked. Such long, dark lashes. She seemed simultaneously surprised and yet ready for me. She quickly glanced away, in the direction of her boyfriend, but her cheeks were rosy; she was blushing. She lowered her chin and looked back at me. I bowed and extended my hand to her. A tiny, adorable hiccup seemed to escape her glorious, full pink lips. She looked down, nodded, and rose.
I took her hand in mine. Her skin was as creamy and soft as I’d expected. I led her out to the center of the floor. We arrived just as the band finished Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon.” As the singers took a moment to reposition themselves, I took the chance to look into her eyes, examine her face. She really did resemble Tatiana. Wide-opened eyes that seemed to contain a sadness, a searching quality; the same slightly fleshy cheeks that, with the long eyelashes, gave her a china-doll-like look; the same light freckle pattern spread over the small, slightly turned up nose; the same heart shape to the face; the same thick, yellow hair, with a feathery light layer of bangs gracing the forehead, a few strands of which dipped into her eyes as she blinked some moisture back.
The snare drum began a slow, sexy, snaky beat and the backup singers started snapping their fingers. I recognized right away the song would be “Fever.” What a perfectly apt number, given the heat I felt flood my loins. I wrapped my right arm around her back, cupping my fingers just under the shoulder blade so I could lead her. I reached down and encompassed her soft, silky right hand with my palm.
The singer’s sultry, smoky, very Peggy-Lee-esque voice began crooning over the mic. My ballerina licked her lips and set her gaze out over my shoulder, which was good. That way I couldn’t look in her eyes, which, if I didn’t stop doing, I might seriously lose it. I took her in a bit closer, pressing down a slight bit more on the bottom edge of her shoulder blade, purposefully moving my right index finger up several millimeters so as to touch the soft skin peeking out above the cut of the dress. A slight, nearly inaudible gasp escaped her lips just as my skin touched hers.
I led her into a foxtrot basic. She followed my lead perfectly. Her body was strong without being rigid, and she had a firm frame and powerful core, making her easy to guide and position exactly where I wanted her. We were an excellent fit. I raised my left arm and, pressing gently into her back, indicated I wanted her to do an underarm turn. She did exactly as I desired. She made the turn easily. She was, as expected, light on her feet. She could definitely spin. I could only imagine how gorgeous she’d be pirouetting around the floor. I guided her back toward me and took her in close again. I wanted to do more fast turns with her, to show her ridiculous boyfriend who clearly didn’t appreciate her enough what she was worth. But I also wanted just to hold her close in those box steps and take in her beautiful, fresh air scent.
I lifted my arm again into another alemana turn, flicking my wrist at the word “Fever,” causing her to whisk around quickly. Her skirt breezed up and her glorious hair flew behind her. She stepped back toward me, right on the beat. She was radiant, and could clearly turn easily without losing balance. When she met me back in our close hold she apologized. I had no idea what for. I wanted her exactly where she was. Maybe she was used to apologizing to her boyfriend? I shook my head and gave her a slight frown, followed by a soft grin so she would know whatever she thought she did was not at all wrong. When I smiled, she gasped again ever so slightly and quickly looked away. I’d embarrassed her. I spotted her boyfriend back at the table. He eyed her with a rather bemused look I couldn’t really decipher.
Okay, time to show the crowd what my ballerina was made of, since he apparently never had. I led her into another alemana turn, but this time, at the word “Fever,” I continued to rotate my wrist, whipping her around several times with increasing speed.
Again, she gasped, but she did what I asked, flying around and around. I saw her eyes. She caught sight of the outer line of my chest tattoo. It was an abstract drawing of a lizard, my favorite small tattoo, and one of the first I’d gotten here. The tail snaked out a bit from the cut of my shirt. She used it to spot, her sight connecting with it at every rotation. She knew how to spot, as I knew she would. I stopped her abruptly and pulled her into me again. It took her a split second to catch her breath. She continued to spot the lizard tail. Her entire face began to flush, but it seemed more out of passion than exertion. Her eyes were full of excitement. She hadn’t danced in a long time. She missed it. Nothing was more clear to me.
I knew what she was capable of. This time, I led her into a series of spins, where she spiraled around me at the same time that I turned in a circle. Her peach skirt flew out, billowing in the air, her locks flying behind her, even whipping me in the face a few times. It felt good. She continued to spot my lizard tail as her breaths
grew more rapid. But her lips curved into a sweetly sly smile and I even caught a little giggle. A couple of times, I let my free hand touch her waist, just to let her know I wasn’t going to let her fall, even if she did somehow manage to lose her balance. It was more for her assurance though. I knew she could do it. Something told me I knew that more than she did.
When the song was near its end, I stopped her abruptly and drew her close into me. She gasped once more as my lips grazed her forehead. I badly wanted to pull her up a couple of inches and press my lips fully onto hers. But of course I didn’t. I lowered her right back down again, my hand firmly on the middle of her back, right above her pelvic bone, so she’d know I wanted to dip her. She did as I commanded, threw her head back and raised her right leg beautifully off the floor, pointing her toe and elongating her beautiful line in the air. The way she lost herself in the dip told me she totally trusted me.
The crowd went wild, as of course I knew they would. I lifted her up out of the dip. She seemed confused, frowning out toward her audience. She giggled when she finally realized they were clapping for her. I extended my arm toward her, as if presenting her, then bowed to her, in gratitude for dancing with me, as is the gentleman’s role in ballroom. She continued to giggle and performed a little curtsy, so I turned toward the crowd and took a little bow myself. There were whistles and a few people in the seated area actually rose to their feet, beckoning everyone to give us a standing ovation. It was a bigger ovation than Xenia and I had received.
I took her hand in mine, ready to begin another dance to whatever the band had in mind for us. Her eyes met mine. They were alive and shone with so many emotions. Our dancing had simply set her on fire. She wanted to continue just as badly as I did. I could have cared less about the studio’s “dance with everyone” policy at that moment. She was an exception.
