I don’t like to dance. That was my excuse every time, every dance. But it’s not really true. At least it wasn’t always true. I was five. We would dance around the kitchen floor,
He asked me to dance. The last dance. And it felt so silly, I can’t even remember the song now. It might as well have been James Taylor. This was different. This was different than the boys who danced too close, if they could dance at all. This was different than shuffling feet and stepped on toes and awkwardly long songs. This was twirling and spinning and fun. This was wishing it wasn’t the last song. This was wanting it to mean something more than a silly dance on a silly night. And then it was over. And I love to dance.