The Silver Ballroom – Part 2: Steady on the Turn

By the sixth week, Georg had stopped stepping on her feet, mostly. Helga had stopped apologising for her patience, entirely.

They walked home together after each class, through the cobbled streets of the old town, past the lit windows of bakeries and wine bars. They talked about everything: his years as a train engineer, her years teaching history to teenagers who never listened, the music they had loved in their twenties.

"Do you still dance?" Georg asked one evening, as they stopped on a bridge over the canal.

"Only in my kitchen," said Helga. "With the radio on and the door locked."

"Then I'd like to see that."

"You would not."

"I would," he said, gravely. "Very much."

She laughed, and he smiled at her, and then his smile faded, just slightly, into something more serious.

"Helga," he said. "I'd like to ask you something. Properly, and you can say no."

"Ask."

"Would you like to come to dinner on Saturday? Not a class. Just dinner. My cooking is terrible, but my wine is very good."

Her heart did a small, unexpected skip. She had been waiting for someone to ask her something like this for years, and she had almost stopped believing anyone would.

"Yes," she said. "I'd like that very much."

The flat was small and warm, with books in every corner and a view of the rooftops. Georg had cooked goulash, badly, and insisted it was delicious. Helga had brought a cake from the bakery on the corner. They ate at a small table by the window, with a candle between them and the city lights coming on below.

After dinner he put a record on the old gramophone. A waltz, slow and sweet, from a time when everyone seemed to know how to dance.

He stood and held out his hand.

"Dance with me?" he asked. "Not for the class. Just because the music is good."

"Yes," said Helga.

They moved slowly across the wooden floor, in the small space between the table and the sofa. He held her carefully, one hand at her waist, the other clasping hers. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, and felt his heart beating steadily, reassuringly, under his shirt.

"Still green?" he asked softly.

"Green," said Helga. "I haven't felt this green in years."

"Good," said Georg, and when the record ended, he didn't let go. Neither did she.

He kissed her, finally, gently, the way one might kiss something long-awaited and precious. She kissed him back, and the candle guttered, and the gramophone hissed quietly in the silence, and neither of them moved to stop the music.