The Dance

I felt stickier than gum on the bottom of a shoe and thought wistfully of the chill of air conditioning that I had always enjoyed growing up in the American South. It was unseasonably warm and humid that first Monday of October. The hormonal changes in my body were enough to make me sweat while standing on a glacier so I dreaded my rush-hour commute home after an especially rough start to my week. Stifling the urge to gag like a cat on a hairball, I descended slowly into the bowels of the city. The Paris metro was particularly fetid that day as I pushed my way into the train along with the rest of the human sardines. The stench of body odour, flatulence, and sour breath was enveloping and would have made a Mississippi high school locker room after an August football practice seem preferable. I grabbed the metal bar to brace myself as the train began to move. Usually cool to the touch, it felt warm and almost greasy this day, with the residue of all the hands that had preceded mine in the last few minutes. The air blowing in from the open windows lacked any of the refreshment one would usually expect in an underground environment, and served only to paste the loose strands of my hair to my face. I had forgotten to charge my ear buds and it was too crowded to hold anything to read. I closed my eyes with a frustrated sigh as sweat soaked through the back of my sleeveless blouse. This was of course followed by the most unpleasant sensation of rivulets running down the various crevices of my overheated body. It was life in a petri dish. 

Squeezed in the aisle between two rows, I was able to grab a seat in the jostle of people leaving the train at La Motte Piquet. The atmosphere remained heavy and the plastic benches created a situation akin to sitting in soup. But at least I could relax a bit more and had space enough to fan my face like a pinwheel in a hurricane, in a feeble attempt to cool off. “Only five more minutes until I’m outta here,” I reassured myself.

The signal sounded as a busker jumped on just before the doors closed. “Oh dear god, not this,” I thought with a sense of dread. Based on the eye rolls around me, I knew I wasn’t alone.

He was attractive, probably in his early to mid-twenties, anonymously dressed in torn jeans, and an untucked tee shirt. I would have totally ignored him had it not been for his cowboy boots. They were definitely expected in my Carolina hometown but certainly not a common choice in the City of Light. I was intrigued.

His beat-up, roll-on speaker emitted a grimace-inducing, piercing screech when he plugged in his handheld microphone. I closed my eyes to try to calm my frazzled nerves. Thankfully, he adjusted the volume as the music began. The first piano chords were enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck as if an icy breeze had just gusted through. My reflection in the window of the metro melted away as I was instantly transported back in time to another, long-ago October evening.

That particular day was a stark contrast to my current circumstance. The tobacco harvest was curing in the nearby factories and its subtle perfume, reminiscent of fine bourbon with earthy notes of hay, caramel and leather, permeated the rolling hills of my college campus. The leaves on the trees had begun to turn, displaying a panoply of colours that would have regaled the Impressionists. The air was crisp and pencil-lead clouds threatened rain on the horizon.

My sorority was holding its annual Sadie Hawkins party that night (which is when the women invite the men), and against all odds, HE had agreed to be my date. Mark. The cutest guy I had ever seen and the one who made my heart skip a beat every time I saw him. I hadn’t thought about him in ages but now, I could see again the sage green rim of his hazel-coloured eyes. I could feel the smoothness of his light brown hair and I could almost detect the clean freshness of the at-that-time ubiquitous Eternity for Men cologne, with its base scents of amber, sandalwood, and musk, that somehow always smelled sexier on him than on anyone else.

I leaned my head against the glass as the busker began to sing:

“Looking back

On the memory of

The dance we shared

'Neath the stars above”

The party had ended and Mark and I walked slowly across the cobbles of my dormitory courtyard, oblivious to the chilly, steady drizzle that had begun to fall. In passing, I mentioned that ‘Social Dance’ was my physical education credit that semester.

“So you know how to do the Shag, right?” he asked. (Caveat for my international readers: the Carolina Shag is a partner dance done to beach music. It evolved from the jitterbug and is sometimes considered a form of swing dance. There are competitions every year - look it up.)

“Actually, I don’t,” I responded hopefully. 

“What?! We need to fix that right now,” he said as he turned to face me.

My pulse began to race and the nip in the air completely dissipated as I looked up at him and he took my hand in his. 

“We’ll start with the basic step,” he said, as his left foot tapped forward, my right foot mirroring his. 

Before I knew it, he had me whirling and twirling with steps like the belt-snap and the pretzel, which ends with a dip. The first time he kissed me was when he lifted me back up after we had finally gotten the complex move right. Our clothes were drenched by that point but neither of us cared or even noticed as our bodies pressed together. 

I smiled as the metro cowboy continued his rendition of the Garth Brooks’ classic:

“For a moment

All the world was right”

I remembered the perfection of that moment and with more than thirty years now separating me from it, I could appreciate its rarity all the more. 

“But how could I have known

That you'd ever say goodbye”

I hadn’t forgotten the deep well of heartache filled by the torrents of tears when we broke up, but that incredible night was the beginning of my first great love. 

“And now I'm glad I didn't know

The way it all would end

The way it all would go

Our lives are better left to chance

I could have missed the pain

But I'd have had to miss the dance”

I was jerked back to the present as the song ended and I rummaged in my bag to find some euro coins to tip the singer. I thanked him as I dropped the coins in his little bag. Somehow the heat seemed less oppressive as I exited the train with an unanticipated feeling of lightness. 

It wasn’t our song, it never was. But every time I hear it, I think of Mark. And I’ll always be grateful that I didn’t miss that dance. 

Copyright © 2023 Suzanne Griffin