First Touch
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. :)
