Charli as posed us this, this week.
November 18, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write dance into your story. Twirl your characters round and round or stomp your plot onto the page. Use dance in any way that comes to mind. Be specific or free, tango or disco.
I love dancing. Always have. But I lack two things. Style and timing. So I’ve been dad dancing since I was about 16 and first found a disco floor to cut a few shapes.
About 6 years ago a leaflet came through the door – Peter’s Dance Club. We went along to the beginners. Tentative, nervy, keen as a sharply pressed suit. We loved it. It’s not competitive, none of those silly exam thingies, and is just for fun.
And best of all, we are ideally matched. I learn steps with relative facility, learning routines pretty fast. She understands timing, beat and pacing so we start at the right time and go at pretty much the right speed.
We manage a fair repertoire these days – cha cha cha and tango, waltzes and quicksteps, about ten in total. The male lead is anathema, even now – our marriage has been based on a diametrically opposed philosophy. But it works.
I wrote this sonnet, linking our marriage to our dancing.
The hand that guides
Your consoling hand sits light on my sleeve,
A Macavity tap to release me on four;
We set sail, in step, gliding with ease
Past blind spots and honey pots strewn on the floor.
I fumble to catch that elusive toe-tap
Which, if I could, would allow me my head.
You remind me, by way of a quick finger snap,
Of the dangers where taking that path might lead.
I continually try to do it my way,
To give into weakness of flesh and of soul
But you hold the leash tight; I cannot stray
And we remain linked; two parts of one whole.
May it always be thus as we gib and we tack;
You looking forward, my hand at your back.
So, the flash and Mary. She needs a little relaxation after the trauma in Ireland.
Dancing back to the future
‘They led you a merry dance, over that DNA test.’
‘It was tragic really. Her parents invested so much hope in the result…’
‘I suppose. Katherine really was sweet. Oh Paul…’
Paul held Mary as the tears flowed. She whispered into his ear. ‘I will find my sister. I will.’
In the background, a song came on the radio. Paul eased Mary to her feet. ‘Remember this?’
She smiled. ‘The Palais. 1991. You were drunk.’
Slowly, clumsily they circled the living-room floor, each recalling a past moment when the future seemed closer than right now.
Here is a link to the previous instalments