Wanna dance?

(Don't get me wrong. This guy made my night. I still smile when I think about it. Based on a true story.)


I slide to the back of my chair and examine the tips of my black high heels that are peeking out from the bottom of my skirt. I’ve been dancing for a while, but now I’ve retreated to a chair in a dim corner of the room. I’m sort of listening to the song that’s playing. I consider visiting the dessert table, but decide against it. Ouch, my poor feet hurt. I sigh and lean forward to stare at my feet. A pair of black shoes with the laces double-knotted walk past me. Hmm, high-water pants and white socks too. The shoes turn, then walk back and stop in front of me. Above me, a high-pitched voice says, “Would you like to dance?” A little surprised, I look up to see a boy standing with his hand outstretched. Blink. “Um, sure,” I hear someone say. Oh, wait. That was me. I stand up and he offers me his arm. I hesitantly take it, and he leads me to the middle of the dance floor. We begin to dance. I can see the top of his head. His blond hair is slicked down and parted crookedly. “What’s your name?” he asks. I look down at his upturned face. “Kate. What’s yours?” “Tim.” His face is friendly, but watered down. He asks me if I’m from around here, and I notice the way his adams apple makes his thin black tie wiggle. “Yeah, I live just a few miles away,” I reply. “Oh. That’s nice. You’re a good dancer. How long have you been dancing?” he asks. A good dancer? Me? Ha. I want to laugh, but don’t. “What time is it?” I ask. His pale blue-gray eyes blink as a moment of confusion crosses his face. “Today is the twenty-fourth.” “No, I meant what hour of the day.” He lets go of my right hand and looks at the digital watch that’s velcroed to his skinny wrist. “It’s eleven,” he says. “Oh, then for about two hours,” I say with a smile, trying to be funny. Surprised, he manages a weak grin. I’m curious; did this kid sneak into the dance with his older brother? “How old are you?” I ask. “I’m a junior," is his response. Whatever! You doesn’t look a day over twelve. Junior as in junior high? “Oh, me too,” I manage to say without too much surprise in my voice. Our conversation drops. He tries to look me in the eye, but I persist in staring over the top of his head. Dude, I could carry you under one arm and easily wrestle you to the ground. Just dance, ok? The song ends and he signs my dance card. He takes my arm and walks me back to my chair. “Thank you for the dance,” he says with a small formal bow. “Thank you,” I say. I sit down, and he walks away. I smile. Nice kid.