The End of the Tease

Inside the dance hall, a tall, unsmiling stranger took my hand inside his much larger one and gently pulled me through the couples waiting for the music to start. When the blast of Duke Ellington’s trumpets announced a swing dance, we swung to the left, then the right. Then he raised his left arm for me to pass beneath, and his double-breasted jacket, snug against a pair of broad shoulders, rose with his arm, revealing a slim body and a narrow waist.

Something inside me leapt like an ocean wave towards the night sky. A full moon moaned. Beneath the brim of his fedora, the stranger’s blue eyes smiled down from a suntanned face, warming me. I passed under his arm, and we reversed positions.

“You can dance!” I said.

“So can you!” 

A tight pair of jeans outlined his long legs. I wanted his expensive shoes off and his naked body stretched beside mine.

“What’s your name?” I asked while dancing.

“Stu.”

 “What do you do, Stu?”         

He was a carpenter from California sent to New York by FEMA to help clean-up after a hurricane. I could picture him with a hammer and nails, pounding wood into submission. I had lived in New York my whole life and taught English. I was trying to get mystified high school students to understand Romeo and Juliet.

A foxtrot came on. Sinatra’s silvery voice sent me back to that full moon. Stu walked me backwards slowly, then quickly. Then his hand on my back pushed me towards him. Our bodies merged. He spun me around. My mouth opened with joy.  

“Are you married?” he asked.           

“No,” I said. “At least, not by choice.”

When a rumba began, I turned into a temptress, moving my hips in a slow figure eight against his. Stepping in place, he raised his arm, and I passed beneath it, swishing my hips. When I looked over my shoulder at him, I saw that his smile was gone.

A cloud drifted in front of the moon.

He took my hand and gently pulled me to the side of the room. He pulled out a chair for me. Then he checked his cell phone.

“Got a call?” I asked.

“The boss.

“Your boss is calling you?” It was a Saturday.

“No, the wife.”

“You call her ‘the boss’?”

“Check.”

Suddenly I was Snidely Whiplash, the cartoon figure in black top hat, cape and clothes, desirous to see the damsel tied to the railroad tracks. 

“Don’t you get lonely away from home?” 

“My wife stopped wanting anything physical a long time ago.” 

I grinned. “Then you have affairs?”

“No.” He smirked. “Because I have the secret to happiness.”

“You do?”

He gave a silly laugh. “A lady.”

Foiled again! 

 “Called Mary. In fact, I’m stoned right now.”

“Oh!” I said, relieved.

“I used to dance professionally, but my wife made me give it up. She doesn’t dance, and I was always travelling to competitions. But that was a long time ago.” He paused. “That is, if you want to.”

“What?” I asked, thrilled at the thought. “You want me to be your dance partner?” 

He shrugged. “If you want.”

“And the boss won’t mind?

“It’s OK with her.” His cell phone vibrated. “At least, I think.”

“Another caller?”

“The boss again.”

“Didn’t she just call you?”

 “Yep.”

“What will you tell her?”

“The truth.”

He stepped away for privacy. When he returned, he pulled me to my feet. Then the music began, and he surrounded me in a close embrace. His shoulder against my arm sent a surge of electricity to all the right places.

We moved forward, then backward, in a “cha-cha-cha.” Suddenly he let go of me, so that he could dance solo. How I longed to feel surrounded again! Instead, he crossed his arms, pushed off with one foot, and spun around five times, like a rapidly turning top.

A rush of admiration surged through my body. 

“You must miss dancing professionally!” I said.

“I’d lift my partner,” he said, “then we’d turn slowly in a circle.” He trained his blue eyes on me. “I can teach you.”

I imagined myself suspended in the air, turning slowly in Stu’s uplifted arms. Then I suddenly remembered the tiny, plastic ballerina inside my Chinese pagoda jewelry box when I was young. When I lifted its cover, a sprightly piano tune played. The box was a cherished object from my childhood.

Then my thoughts turned to Stu’s powerful shoulders and slim hips, and I wished for a cigarette, remembering how, in my college dorm room, after a party, I would smoke a cigarette following sex with a partygoer. 

“I’m crazy about you,” I told Stu.

He laughed. “I’m sorry.  I'm married.  For thirty years!  Should I leave you alone?  I’ll do whatever you want.”

I laughed. “Really? Whatever!?”  

“Within bounds. But right now, let me walk you to the bus stop, because I’ve got to go.”

He grabbed my hand, which fit mine like a connecting puzzle piece. We strode out of the dancehall, descending in a slow elevator whose creaking broke the awkward silence. Then we floated through a deserted lobby, leading to a lonely street, where the bracing, cool night air hit our flushed faces.

“Excuse me,” Stu said, ducking into the shadows of a passing building. From inside his jacket, he took out a small metal pipe and a tiny pouch. He filled the pipe from the contents of the pouch, clicked a Bic, and puffed. “Want a hit?”

“I don’t smoke anymore.”

We walked very slowly. At the corner loomed the bus stop. Brakes screeched. A bus door thudded open. I thought, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

“I don’t want the evening to end!” I nearly shouted.

“Me neither.” 

“Let’s go back to the dance place.”

He paused. “OK. But I can’t stay long.”

His agreement lifted me like a hot air balloon, taking me skyward in a flimsy wicker basket. We walked back in silence. Inside the dance hall, my longing persisted, like a toothache without relief.

I went through the motions of several more dances.

“I can’t do this,” I finally said. “Don’t ask me anymore!”

“Why?” His jaw dropped.

“I like you too much!” 

He shrugged. Then he tilted his head as if reconsidering. Looked into my eyes.

And slowly walked out of my life.

Crushed, I retreated to the side of the room. Took a seat. I dropped my elbows to my knees and cradled my head in my hands. “How I hated being single! When would my Romeo come?” In my mind’s ear, I heard the plaintive voice of Juliet:

“What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?”