Rock step, triple, triple . . .
His hands were soft, and I had to physically keep myself from gripping them far too tightly than was appropriate for swing dancing. Damn the “loose hand contact” rule. We started dancing, and I tried hard not to look too long at his face, watch my feet. Moving in sync with his. A small encouraging jerk on my right arm signaled the tuck turn, and I rolled into it.
That one moment seemed to signify this whole one-sided relationship for me. He let go and spun me almost violently away from him, only to reach out and grab me again as I turned back to face him. So many times in the past week alone I had whirled away, determined never to turn around again, only to have him reach out in some way of which he was unaware and snatch me back into his thrall.
Deciding to take out the agonizing thoughts in my own mind and the now approaching awkward silence with one blow, I brought up a topic I had wanted to discuss anyway. “I heard your radio show last night,” I said.
Rock step, triple, triple . . .
“Oh yeah?” His sea-gray eyes met mine and then wandered slightly, and I could tell he wasn’t completely interested in the topic. He was having difficulty keeping the beat. I didn’t blame him. My own personal beat was a little off kilter as well.
“You played ‘Give Me Freedom’.”
He grinned. “I did.”
“I love you!”
“You do?” I couldn’t tell whether he was horrified or excited, or if it was something in the middle, but his tone conveyed none of the playful banter I knew he did so well. I was shocked he would have taken it any other way than in context with the conversation. I used the phrase all the time in the lightest way: you play a song I really like, I love you. Simple. How could he have mistaken it?
“Yes, I love that song!” I clarified quickly, as though I hadn’t noticed what I was sure was a slip-up. He recovered quickly.
“Yeah, me too.”
Rock step, triple, triple . . .
Later that night I sought out the advice of my roommate, who was currently in a romantic relationship and was probably ten times more qualified on the subject of boys and crushes than was I. After the narrative, her face was contorted by an incredulous grin. She gave no direct indications or predictions as to what it could have meant, but her excitement about it was evident. One thing I knew for certain, even if my roommate couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me: he had not been thinking in context. I do not know in what way he had been thinking, but suffice it to say the subject of love was obviously on his mind. As it was on mine. It was a promising step, but I swore to myself not to take anything too quickly. Hopefully I wasn’t reading into it.