The music blared and the dance floor grew crowded with couples, but I still sat on a stool, hunching over the elevated table in a room lit by the multicolored lights overhead. A half-empty glass sat in front of me, a symbol of how I'd begun to view life. Someone had changed the dating rules during the past thirty-something years and I wasn't very prepared to face the new generation. My mother would be aghast if she knew were I was.
I'd already turned down several invitations to dance, and pondered going home. I must have been suffering diminished capacity when I came to this single's dance by myself. I'd tried for months to get my friend to come, but she always had an excuse.
My gaze wandered the room, and my stomach churned at the assortment of men still looking for partners. No one there appealed to me on that all important "chemistry" level...especially the guy with 'Donald Trump' comb-over, or the one with gold chains to rival Mr. T. Evidently, they were as ill-prepared for dating as I felt.
Then, I noticed him. Standing against across the room, one knee crooked, his cowboy boot firmly against the wall. The term, "where have you been all my life" came to mind...at least, where had he been for the past two horrible hours I'd suffered conversing with jerks. He wore a white shirt with long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black jeans, boots, and had hair. When he looked my way, I dipped my chin and stared into my lap. I didn't want him to think me bold.
"Just go home," a little voice niggled at me, but I couldn't stop sneaking glances at my new discovery. He was dangerously close to the door and looked as disappointed as I felt. I stood, and chewed my bottom lip. Should I go, or should I be that bold person I denied a few minutes ago? What the hell? I'd come this far, why not ask him to dance? If he said 'no,' I'd probably never see him again.
My heart thudding, I hitched my purse strap up on my shoulder and ambled across the room, trying to assume comfort I didn't feel. "Excuse me," I said, tapping him on the shoulder. "If I asked you to dance with me, would you say yes?" At this point, I felt like a passenger on the Titanic.
He turned powder blue eyes to me, and grinned from beneath a full and well-trimmed mustache. "Of course."
He held out his hand. My name's Kelly, what's yours?"
"Ginger." I grasped his palm, and maybe it wasn't just the touch of his skin against mine, or the smile he flashed, but he stirred butterflies I thought long dead. Touch alone, perhaps not, but the twinkle in his eyes coupled with the roughness of a man's hand, and the way he took me in his arms told me I might have found what I'd been looking for. Thank God, I didn't listen to that little voice who told me to leave.
Actually we've been together seventeen years, and I'm still trying to figure out how I got so old. *lol* Kelly is a little younger than I, but my plan is to nag him until he turns gray and we look the same age. I think it's working. :)