The Song of David

It’d been almost a week since the kiss. Millie had worked her shifts as usual and was her same smiling self, calm and collected, unassuming and independent. I thought for sure I was going to have some explaining to do. Some unruffling. But Millie seemed unaffected. Or maybe she just had me figured out. I didn’t know, but I was simultaneously grateful and offended that there hadn’t been any attempts to pin me down. Instead, I walked her home like I had a dozen times before, and we conversed like old friends, though I found myself looking longer, eyeing her mouth, and thinking of her when we weren’t together. Being with Millie spoiled me a bit. I never had to guard my feelings or school my expression. I could look at her like a man looked at a lover, and she had no idea.

She had no idea I watched her now, although I hoped like hell she’d come here for me. I excused myself from the palms I’d just greased and moved toward her. From the way her chin rose and her nostrils flared slightly, she heard me coming, even though she didn’t turn her head. I took her stick and set it aside. Then I laid my hand on her waist, and took her hand in mine. I was a rich kid, wasn’t I? My mama had made me learn all the rich kid things. Dancing, good manners, all the things that made me as slick as could be. All the things that made people trust me and made me slightly sick to my stomach. But Millie wanted to dance, that was plain to see, and no one was asking. Thank God. I didn’t know if I could handle watching her dance with someone else.

I pulled her in tight and felt her little intake of breath and couldn’t help but catch my own. She was so composed, but she felt something. She felt the ode. I wouldn’t lead her around the floor in a silly side to side shuffle. I knew how to dance and dance we would.

“You know how to waltz, sweetheart?”

She raised one eyebrow disdainfully. “Who’s the dancer here, David?”

“Just makin’ sure you can keep up with me, darlin’,” I cracked. I was laying it on thick and it was all I could do not to laugh when she snorted, setting her left hand gracefully on my shoulder, signaling she was ready.

“Are we going to dance or are you just going to hang onto me?” She wriggled impatiently.

“By all means, let’s dance.” With that, I began to move, pulling her so close she stood on her toes, her breasts pressed against me, her legs scissoring mine. She slid into the movement effortlessly, matching my sway, my timing, my steps, and we flew around the room. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, we waltzed, and everyone watched. Nobody waltzed anymore. But we did. Millie’s eyes were closed, her lips parted, her cheeks lightly flushed.

Ray LaMontagne sang about being saved by a woman.

And I believed him.

“She won’t let me go,” he moaned. “She won’t let me go.”

I sang with him, my lips against Millie’s hair. She tipped her face up, listening as we moved together. Then one song became another—another song in three/four time—and then another. I made a note to tip my DJ. He knew what he was doing. And I knew every word of every song.

We’d drawn quite the audience, though Millie wouldn’t know that. A group of women huddled at the edge of the floor, their heads together, their eyes on us, and I realized I’d slept with all of them, and I’d never danced with any of them. Kara, Brittney, Emma and Lauren. Good lord. They were friends? I didn’t know they were all friends. They came into the bar and worked out at the gym. I winked when I caught Brittney’s eye. We’d ended on good terms, and I didn’t see any reason not to be friendly. In fact, I’d never been especially serious with any of them. Looking at their scowling faces, maybe I was remembering wrong.

Brittney broke away from the others and strolled across the floor like she was on a catwalk and I was a fashion photographer. I should have spun Millie away, but the floor was small, and Brittney looked determined.

“Tag! I want to cut in! Who knew you could dance, baby?” she cooed, all gooey syrup and vanilla perfume. She snuggled up to my side and hugged my bicep, as if I wasn’t already dancing with another woman.

Millie stiffened and stepped back. I grabbed her hand.

“I’m dancing with Millie now. Next song. Okay?”

Brittney pouted in that way some women do when they really want to get ugly and are trying to stay cute, and she didn’t release my arm.

“Come on, Tag. You’re embarrassing me. Don’t say no.”

Millie pulled out of my arms. “Point me toward my stick and tell me how far it is. Ten feet? Twenty? I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.” Her expression was blank, her shoulders thrown back.

“She’ll be fine, Tag,” Brittney crooned. She was obviously well aware that Millie was blind.

“I’m dancing with Millie right now, Britt,” I said firmly, and I could hear the frost in my voice. I shot a look at the edge of the dance floor, at the women huddled together, watching the little drama unfold. There were grinning at me like it was all a big joke.

“Whatever.” Brittney released my arm casually. She turned away slowly, her pout still in place and sauntered off.

The song ended and for the space of a heartbeat there was relative quiet. Then her voice rang out loud and clear.

“You’re such a manwhore, Tag. It’s almost embarrassing,” she called over her shoulder, and a few people laughed. “Who will you sleep with next?”