Dancing sounds great, I reply.
His response comes a few moments later.Perfect. Looking forward. Take care and stay dry. —Ol
The New York City Parks Departmentorganizes an outdoor West Coast Swing event once a month on a pier looking out over the Hudson River, with a DJ to play songs that fit within the slow-but-not-too-slow range that makes them easy for West Coast Swing. I’ve learned that every dance style tends to have its own music requirements, even within the more popular music styles. There are songs by Wham that are perfect for the jitterbug, and Ed Sheeran songs that you can waltz to. West Coast Swing requires a bluesy quality that’s hard to put into words. Certain songs just click with it, and sometimes it’s a surprise when you discover a new one that works.
It’s a little after seven in the evening when I arrive, and I can hear a Sam Smith song crooning out across the sunset-orange water of the Hudson as I walk along the river path toward the pier. It is early June, the season of long days and warm breezes before the city slinks into the sweaty heat of summer. I glance at my new cell phone and see a message from Ollie identifying his exact location.To the left of entrance, dressed like a spy.
I spot Ollie waiting in a black button-down shirt and charcoal linen pants, glancing around with the body language of someonewho isn’t sure where to look. West Coast Swing tends to be informal, so after much deliberation, I went with a form-fitting red shirt with a sweetheart neckline and black jeans.
“First time swing dancing?” I say as I walk up to him.
He lights up as he sees me, and the smile makes him look especially handsome. “I watched some videos online and thought I would give it a try,” he replies with a grin.
I nod and lean forward, saying in a conspiratorial voice, “I’ve been doing it for years, but I convinced this guy I was learning it for him. Boy is he in for a surprise when he sees how good I am.”
He puts out a hand. “Can I dance with you until he shows up?”
“You’re going to be dazzled.”
“I already am.”
It really is annoying that he is so good at this: looking good, dressing well, saying exactly the right thing.I don’t trust women.He said that, and now he’s being charming and sexy. I need to be careful, and I keep failing at my goal. I could get in trouble at work just for being seen with him, yet here I am.
Ollie leads me straight onto the dance floor, and I think: this is it. This is the moment I’ve been thinking about since I first saw him dance. What will it be like to dance with him, out on a dance floor with other people, having him lead me through steps and spins? Will I be so terrible that I won’t enjoy it? Will it be sexy? Will it be like dancing on clouds?
What it is, initially, is hilarious. I miss easily one out of every three moves that he’s trying to guide me through. Every time I miss something and start to panic, I see his green-gold eyes light up with amusement.
“I’m glad you’re having fun laughing at me,” I say as we pull away from each other and then back again.
“I’m just having fun,” he calls back. “I wish I could kiss you, but I don’t know if we’ll be spotted by the Murano accounting paparazzi.”
“What could they prove? We’re just friends having a fun dance.”
“Sure.”
He pulls me in close and then releases me again.
“The last time I danced this much outside of class was probably a twenty-four-hour rave,” I say to him the next time he pulls me closer.
“Your teen years were way more fun than mine.”
“Who said anything about teen years? That was way into my twenties. You’re looking at someone who once gave the finger to a police helicopter topless.”
He blinks at me, momentarily rendered silent. I feel panicked.
“Did I just ruin your opinion of me?”
He pulls me close and says into my ear, “You are the most interesting accountant I’ve ever met.”
After another few mistakes, I am starting to get the hang of it. Social dancing is not so much about nailing amazing moves as listening to the music and paying attention. Once or twice, he looks impressed that I did a spin correctly. Once or twice, I might even be enjoying myself.
When a cheerful pop song comes to a close, he gives me a hug.
“Hey,” he says, looking down at me, his eyes warm.
“Hey.”
“You’re doing so well.”
