Big Dump

1-2-3

“1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3…”

I watch him dance with his sister and count the steps. Interestingly, my pulse matches their first beats. His sister laughs as he whispers something in her ear, throwing her head back, but never forgetting the rhythm. Their movements are in complete unison and she completely succumbs herself to his lead. I guess this is not their first dance.

When they are finished he sits at the table with me, smiling and wiping a bit of perspiration from his eyebrow – it is a hot and humid afternoon, but he still has his blazer on.

“I didn’t know you could dance,” I lean toward him, smiling.

“I’ve spent three years in the dance studio,” he winks at me, getting himself a glass of champagne.

“And you tell me this at your sister’s wedding, after 10 years of our friendship?”

“But Jonny, you never asked!” he cries out, leaning back on his chair and looking genuinely surprised with my reaction.

“He can’t dance,” a drunken Colin leans in, his breath burning my cheek, “He can’t even cha-cha-cha. Stumbles all the way.”

“You knew?”

“We used to tango with him. Of course it was the drunken-stupid kind of tango, the freak-everybody-out kind of tango, but…”

“I never danced with you,” Thom throws a crumpled napkin at Colin that makes an arch in the air and lands far away from the target.

“It must’ve been somebody else then…”

“Darling! How could you forget? It was me all the way,” Ed chimes in, piss-drunk and slightly high. Colin raises his head and they gaze at each other for a moment, then both loose themselves in the face-wide grins. That’s why sometimes I wish that Thom and I were a couple that gets drunk together and does stupid stuff. But it is only sometimes.

“I can cha-cha-cha,” Thom murmurs while playing with the straw and gazing in front of himself. I can’t really imagine what cha-cha-cha is, but the pictures of fluid movements and sharp steps flick through my mind.

“I want to dance with you,” I blurt out.

“Hmmm?” he raises his far-away eyes to look at me.

“Teach me?”

“Um…” he scratches at his temple, then smiles and stands up, taking my hand, “Sure, let’s go.”

When we find a relatively quiet place at the side of the dance floor he sighs and tells me to ignore the music – the DJ is playing regular pop now. Instead he clicks his fingers in front of my eyes and counts. 1-2-3, 1-2-3.

He places his hand on my shoulder blade and takes another one in his and this is one of the few times when I realize how much smaller he is than me. He tells me that my palm has to be on his shoulder and that the bend of my elbow has to be relaxed and smooth and I grin when his hands glide over my arms to adjust their position.

“Christ, Jonny…you are huge. I don’t know if I can lead,” he laughs, staring down at our legs.

“When I was learning how to do it our teacher used to tells us to freeze in one position while he checked every couple and made sure everybody was standing right,” he murmurs slightly, “Okay, now, we make the first step…”

“Which direction?”

“I go forward, you go backward…erm,” he looks around, “I wish there was some kind of chalk to draw the pattern on the floor.”

I laugh at him and duck down for a quick kiss, but as I’m about to withdraw we simultaneously lean in and kiss for a while longer. When we finally pull apart I realize that his hands haven’t moved an inch, while my posture is slumping.

“Okay, watch me.”

He does a few rounds, counting “1-2-3” sharply, and I watch his legs move – heels touching the ground only a couple of times, the steps graceful and light.

“I think I got it,” I bite my lip and we tangle again.

“Ready? We’ll go one step at a time. One,” his leg comes between mine, but I’m too confused to move. He giggles and resumes the starting position.

“You have-to step backward, ‘cause you the woman at the moment.”

“I don’t think I really recognize your authority in this,” I challenge him and he giggles once more.

“Wanna be the man? Okay, go ahead. One…”

This time I’m too vigorous and I step on his foot that makes him cringe and shake his head.

“If you lead it doesn’t mean you have to be a despot.”

“Okay, okay, let’s just do it.”

He sighs and counts once again. After a couple more efforts we are able to make one round.

…::…

We dropped the technicalities long ago and now we are just kissing passionately while my hands roam through his hair and his fumbling around the waistband of my jeans. He shed his blazer and his sleeves are cuffed, while tiny bits of sweat are glistening on his chest.

“So,” he pants between the kisses while I descend to his neck, “Have I told you about the method of determining if the person likes you or not during the dance?”

“No,” I raise my head and bite at his raw lips several times before kissing him deeply again.

“Well…if the woman’s hand is not on the shoulder, but pushing against the chest it means she doesn’t like you and you repulse her…” my hands find their way under his shirt and I caress his spine.

“If her hand is on your shoulder it means that she is indifferent to you or that she is quite conservative or just a professional…”

“Uh-huh,” I look around briefly, noticing that it is dark now and I could probably drag him out and have him while nobody sees us.

“But if her arm is on your shoulder…the hand on the back of the neck or embracing the neck…it means that she wants you,” I let this slip past my ears as I circle his waist with one arm and hurry him in the dark corner there our teeth clink at the first touch and we smile before proceeding.