Dance Right Where You Are

By S. Faith, © 2007

Words: 1,496
Rating: T
Summary: You're pretty sure it's not possible to fall in love in a single evening. And yet…
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not making money.
Notes: Title from the song "Private Conversation" by Lyle Lovett, which I've always loved. And now when I hear this part, I always think of the Ruby Wedding scene from BJD: "It was a private conversation / No one heard her say / That man that she was looking for / Was only twenty streets away // (Chorus) Singing boy pick up that fiddle / And play that steel guitar / And find yourself a lady / And dance right where you are // And the band it just kept playing / As she came walking in / And he never stopped to wonder / If he'd see her again // It was a private conversation / No one heard him say / That girl he left behind him / Was two thousand miles away…"

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You're pretty sure it's not possible to fall in love in a single evening.

The chance meetings prior to dinner that evening equal a very small number of hours, even fewer if you think about how little time it was just her and you, and even that was mostly comprised of uneasy tension, awkward conversation, attempts to be glib. Yet you somehow managed to find yourself attracted to her, leaving you thinking about her more than you ever expected to.

You finally reached a détente with her when you offered your apologies and a chance to begin again, culminating in landing on her doorstep, hoping to take her out but instead being surprised by her covered in food preparing to entertain for her birthday. After a few awkward steps trying to find your collective rhythm, the evening had been going quite pleasantly, her friends serving as a buffer to further ease into comfort with her.

Until he showed up.

The fight hurt you, body and soul. You still wonder how you could have so misread the situation, the cues you thought you were picking up, the vibes you were convinced she was sending. You chide yourself for your ridiculousness, reminding yourself you shouldn't have been surprised. You'd vowed not to let yourself fall into the same trap after your first wife burned you so badly, so you really should have known better.

You then retreat to the safety and relative stability of your work and your known-quantity affair with your fellow barrister, a dark-haired, rail-thin woman with a specialty in family law. And then out of nowhere all roads converge, with this woman, you, an inevitable personal merger and a lucrative, prestigious position in New York City, even though you've never felt the same about your colleague and current lover in all the months you've been with the her than you do about a woman you've spent so very little time with.

Just before you're scheduled to leave you see the object of your mercurial consideration one last time, and to your great surprise she lets you know how she feels: pretty close to how you feel.

Which really makes you wonder about falling in love in the space of a single evening.

But then everything goes a little sideways and your trip, your possible commitment, comes to light mere minutes after her confession. She looks devastated, approximately how you feel, but it's not like you can call off the whole thing now. It's what's expected of you and you don't want to disappoint.

So you go as planned.

The transatlantic flight leaves in the morning and as you skirt the Artic Circle moving westward the morning reverts to daybreak then back into night. You feel like you're running away from the sun itself and every mile closer to New York brings increasing doubts for leaving in the first place. Your father would probably tell you it's just nervousness about the trip, the new position, or stepping your relationship up to the next level with your law partner. Your mother, however, would probably tell you to follow your heart.

From the instant the plane lands in New York everything about being there feels wrong and it twists you up inside, like gravity's pull is stronger or the atmosphere is devoid of oxygen. As you stride towards the taxi your steps slow and finally you stop.

You know then that you must go back, regardless of obligations and disappointing others, before a future filled with long meetings and a partner—spouse—interested primarily in appearances and prestige becomes fixed in stone, and the possibility for a chance of happiness with her winks out of existence. The brunette woman you're with, already seated in the taxi, gives you the harshest look, as if you're mad to delay forward progress into your new life, demanding that you hurry up and get in already, or you'll both miss the meet and greet lunch that the firm's throwing.

In return you gaze at her as if you've never really seen her before. Maybe you only thought you had. And the words I'm going back fall out of your mouth before you can think about it or change your mind.

She laughs, thinking you're joking. Your stony expression quickly convinces her otherwise, and then her voice raises accusingly, questioning the loss of your sanity. But you've never felt saner in your entire life, and you retrieve your suitcase from the boot before making your way back into the terminal.

You spend an obscene amount of money for a last minute return ticket, and you spend a few hours having a meal and a couple of drinks in the airport lounge before you're boarding another flight back to London.

This time you feel like you're racing to catch the sun. You try to sleep but keep waking up, because you're too wound up. Your stomach is doing acrobatics but you're smiling like a lunatic; the air hostess even flirts a little bit and that's a novelty.

When you touch down in England, you feel like Antaeus, reclaiming your strength from terra firma, and you want to go straight from Heathrow to her flat. But you realise you have no idea what time of day or even which day it is, and that after over fourteen hours of flight time, a shower and shave is probably a good idea. When you get out, feeling refreshed even though you're running almost exclusively on adrenaline alone, you realize it's Friday night, the weekend before New Year's Eve, and you want to make sure you catch her before she goes out drinking with her friends, possibly not stopping until the new year.

It's snowing, but you want to walk. Her building is not that far and it's a lovely winter night. You round the corner and you realise you've gotten there just in time, because there's a Mini spitting out exhaust in front of her building and there she is, on her front stoop, digging in her handbag. You hear her say the word keys and you're thankful that she's scatterbrained and sloppy and couldn't find them, or else she might be gone by now.

When she sees you she literally looks like she's seeing a ghost. You move closer to explain you did go to America but you came back, and she seems really happy because she seems to understand immediately that you came back for her. You try to kiss her, are interrupted three times before you suggest heading up to her flat, because if you don't kiss her soon you might implode.

And then you do something rash and stupid. Later you'll go on to blame sleep deprivation or possibly temporary insanity, but the thing is, after she goes to freshen up, you see her diary open to an entry where she had written some very unkind things about you, and you think maybe you've made a huge mistake leaving the job and the ready-made wife in New York. Feeling bewildered and even a bit betrayed, you take off from her flat—

—only to realise a couple of blocks away, you have made a huge mistake, but it's by leaving her flat. You remember the things you'd done and said, the way you'd behaved, and you realise that she had every right to think of you in this way. It's what she thinks now that is most important, but you think you might have ruined everything. You consider a peace offering, an apology, and it hits you: a new diary for a new start.

As you leave the store with your purchase you find that she's followed you, barely dressed but for a pair of trainers, a pair of ridiculous panties and a tank covered by a cardigan. She's clearly horrified that you've seen her entries, and you feel terribly guilty for violating her privacy in such a way.

But then you offer the gift and offer your apologies in your own way, and just like that she's in your arms. Some older ladies gawk at the two of you, and you both start laughing at the spectacle you've made there in the street. But she's so close, so lovely, and you haven't even had her in your arms before now—you have to, have to kiss her.

Nothing about it disappoints you: soft, ardent, luscious. You feel like you can't control yourself, so much so that you wonder if you've pushed past the boundaries of acceptable first kisses. Breathless, she pulls away, and expresses what you can only interpret as appreciation as well as surprise.

With much less eloquence than you're usually capable of, you reply, and frankly you're a little surprised yourself, because you've never really considered yourself a passionate person. Something about her, though, has stoked that fire in you, and as your lips meet hers again you know that coming back to her is the best decision you've ever made in your life.

The end.