Let me set the scene.
A ballroom dance club in what we always thought was the shady side of town.
Dimly lit, white Christmas lights outlining the dance floor.
An average guy with fancy shoes comes over and attempts to teach Cody how to lead me, raise the bridge and check his watch. The same guy teaches me to walk around a puddle in six steps and keep my feet on a hundred dollar bill.
People file in.
We are welcomed with applause and introduced as the new kids.
The dancing starts.
Tiny old couples, stooped and wrinkled, foxtrot around the floor.
Schoolteachers dressed in heels and rhinestones turn into tango dancing minxes.
Cody and I are instructed to stay in the middle of the floor “where it’s safe for the new dancers.”
At the start of every song Cody squares me up to the wooden laminate on the floor, finds someone to watch and begins, quick quick slow, no. wait. Slow, quick quick. Crap. Something’s wrong. Okay. One, two, three…four? No. Shoot. OUCH. Sorry. *ahem* Okay. One. Two. Quick quick. NO! Don’t talk! We have it! Oh crap. Sorry.
For almost three hours we giggle and fall all over each other, the new kids stumbling in the middle of the floor while others literally dance circles around us.
We left with sore feet and still no clue what we are doing.
We spent the night happy and tangled up with each other.
I love him.
I really, really do.