The Dancers Have Cocktails
You’ve known each other twelve years,”
sighs Julia. “It must be romantic
to dance together.” “He’s not
romantic,” my wife says, “sometimes
we fight on stage.” “But you met
dancing,” Julia says. She fills my wife’s
glass, spills wine
on the tablecloth. “I hired him
to teach me tango.” And I add,
“We’ve been dancing together
since.” Julia touches my arm
with her hand, “You started dancing…?”
“After college. I liked
the girls.” Julia’s red hair
is wispy and jumps about in long
curls. Her eyes are green, and her throat
dives like an arrow
into her teal silk blouse.
I consider launching into
a short monologue about when I saw ballet
on TV at twelve; wanting to touch the women
all those places
as a job.
“It’s so gorgeous,
it must be wonderful to be able to
do that. We should go dancing
sometime.” My wife lifts her wine glass,
and I know we never will.
2001-2004