The old dance hall pulsed with rhythm; an aorta pumping sound, brass, and tempo through ancient floorboards. She sat alone, barely present. Eight o’ clock had come and gone hours ago, and Sam hadn’t come. But she’d known he wouldn’t, didn’t she? He’d promised this time. When would she learn? She cursed for letting herself hope… again.
“You don’t have to keep holding that!” The voice of an old friend jolted her out of her reverie.
She wiped a hurried tear out of the corner of her eye. Then she remembered the camera in her hand; she was supposed to be working. “Shoot, sorry.” She flipped the on switch and fidgeted with the exposure.
“Forget the photos,” Figs’ voice was almost lost under the scream of the trumpets. “Until we get to that stupid birthday dance every stupid dance looks the same.”
Her uncertainty was invitation enough. He grabbed her camera and shoved it under the dingy tablecloth covering the rented check-in table and pulled her onto the floor.
They twirled and jumped and slid; the force of their movement keeping his hand tight on her lower back and her chest pressed against his. As they turned, she cast another glance at the door to see Sam’s silhouette darkening the doorway, head scanning the crowd. Her heart jumped.
“You deserve better,” Figs’ voice was low against her ear. “But you knew that already.” She raised her soft blue eyes and found his dark brown ones locked on hers.
The song ended and they didn’t separate. There was nothing between them but her silk dress, his cotton shirt, and two layers of sweat. Their breathing matched in concert. She didn’t have to look at the door to know Sam was staring, but she didn’t care. The band struck up the song for the birthday dance, but she wouldn’t be grabbing her camera now.
The music moved the floor under their feet. If the hall hadn’t held up for a century already she’d have thought the floor would give way. The boards creaked and snapped and groaned like a heaving beast underfoot. Figs wrapped her in his arms and spun her across the room, his breath heavy and warm against her neck. She knew then that Sam wasn’t the one she’d been waiting for.
She pulled him to a halt in the middle of the floor where the twinkly lights crossed, freckling Figs’ dark skin with pale spots of light. She lifted herself on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. He returned her kiss with full force. “I knew you felt the same,” he whispered into her mouth, oblivious to the whirling couples around him.
A pair of dancers swung directly into them, driving her and Figs to the ground. She collapsed in laughter, unable to lift herself from the ground. Figs grinned and offered her a hand. She stared at him where he sat, bathed in bliss and light and sound. Finally, she took his hand, and he pulled her back into the present there in that old dance hall. And she felt like Sam had never existed at all. All that mattered now was sweat, rhythm, a tight hand on her back, and that stupid birthday song.
© Sophie Alexander, 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost without permission.
