The Other Half of the Dance

Dear Maeve,

Gethin asked me to dance while my best friend was pinning our club badge to my dress. The pin caught my skin. I would like to blame that for how quickly I said yes, but it would be unfair to the pin.

Eighteen months ago he left our Friday Rooms and started a Sunday dance of his own. He also wrote something unkind about us. There was truth in it, which has made forgiving the unkindness considerably more difficult. Fenna and I kept opening the doors. I typed the notice telling people not to bring his flyers.

I am forty-one, Maeve. I know the difference between a dance and a declaration. I am less certain why I kept looking at his mouth when there was an entire floor requiring my attention.

He made me laugh and I missed a step. He didn’t explain what I’d done wrong. He waited until I could dance again. Afterwards I asked him to sit beside me without finding him a useful job first.

Then I asked him for coffee. He remembered that I used to give away the biscuits because there weren’t enough. I had forgotten anyone might notice whether I ate one myself.

I have been to his Sunday now. Some people were happy, some were lonely, and nobody had solved the difficulty of walking into a room on your own. I had a very good evening. A great deal of it was him.

Fenna says I get to change my mind and she gets to remember agreeing with me. She is right. She has been beside me for ten years, with spare keys and lifts home and a hundred kindnesses that don’t stop counting because I want something different.

I want to see him again. I also want to tell her that without making him sound useful, harmless or temporary. I can arrange a roomful of chairs so everyone has a place. Apparently asking for one of my own is beyond my present qualifications.