The Dance Teacher – Part 2: The Turn

On her last night, there was a party at the studio.

Neighbours packed the room, drinking rum, laughing, dancing. A band of old men played a slow son on a trumpet and a guitar. Carol, in a red dress she'd bought that afternoon, stood by the window, heart in her throat.

"I can't," she said.

"You can."

"In front of everyone?"

"No one is watching," said Ernesto. "They are all busy being bad at it."

He led her to the middle of the floor, and the music swelled. She felt his hand firm at her back, his other one warm in hers. She did not count. She let her body listen. Forward, side, turn, a long slow spin, her skirt fanning out, and the room swung around her in a blur of light and colour.

She was laughing. She was dancing. Somewhere inside her, a knot that had been tight for forty years came undone.

When the song ended, people applauded. She did not even notice. She stood in the circle of his arm, flushed and breathless, and met his eyes.

"You did that," said Ernesto, very quietly.

"We did that."

"Walk with me?"

They stepped out onto the balcony. The warm air smelled of salt and frying plantains. Below, the old city glowed, and the sea murmured somewhere beyond the rooftops.

"Can I ask you something?" said Carol.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must come back every winter and dance."

"That isn't a punishment."

"No."

She kissed him, softly, one hand on his warm shoulder. He kissed her back, slow and sweet, tasting of rum and lime, one arm sliding round her waist. Behind them, the band began another song, and the two of them swayed, there on the balcony, not counting.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Carol. "Very green."

She came back that winter, and the one after. Ernesto still says she counts too much. He says it with a smile.

More mature romance stories: Autumn in Quebec · The Quilting Circle · The Silver Ballroom