Free The Unexpected Waltz by Kim Wright Page B

takes them with her. But when she glances at him, he makes a great show of checking his phone, pulling it from his pocket and frowning as if he’s just been informed of some breast-related emergency. She settles instead on the obviously eager Harry, who stumbles gracelessly through it, counting out loud the whole time.
    “Do we need another demonstration?” she asks. We sure as hell do. She says, “Pamela, would you care to show us how it looks from the feminine point of view?” Nik comes over from behind his desk to demonstrate with Pamela, and they run the sequence flawlessly. Pamela gives us a dismissive little smile as she walks back to the mirror, and it occurs to me that she’s chosen to demonstrate all the time. This is probably why she’s hanging around the studio during the group class hour, for this brief moment in which it’s clear she’s the special one.
    Now we’re ready to try it together. Quinn puts on “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” but slows it down so much that it sounds like Freddie Mercury has gargled glue. Each man is paired with a woman and Quinn directs me toward the dapper black man, who says his name is Lucas. There are a couple of women left over, which I suspect is typical, and for this round they dance alone. I envy them. Lucas and I go into Latin position, my hand at the base of his neck, his hand low on my hip. Quinn counts us down.
    We get through it surprisingly well. Surprising considering this is the first time I’ve danced with anyone other than Nik, and I feel a surge of adrenaline when Lucas and I manage to finish facing the right direction, each on the correct foot.
    “Good,” says Quinn. “Rotate.”
    We slip down a man and the ladies who were solo now dance with a partner. I’m alone through this cycle, which gives me the chance to sharpen up my timing a little and watch the others. The tall lesbian named Jane is very good, I notice, very precise. But she keeps her steps small and her body tightly reined in. Isabel, who’s a foot shorter, covers more ground.
    Quinn moves us down the line of men again, so I am now with Harry. I soon realize that his need to vocalize is not limited to the demonstrations. He stutters out the name of each step as he makes it, which would be fine except I have to remember that he’s calling out the man’s part, so when he says “left” I have to go right and when he says “back” I should step forward. It’s a little disconcerting but we make it through. Rotate.
    Surprisingly, it’s fun. The clock already says seven thirty. In one corner Anatoly is with Wilhelmena, the old lady from the first day I came into the studio, and in the other corner Nik is with a woman I’ve never seen, who’s dressed as if she’s come straight from work. There are people sitting at the bar in the back, drinking wine and talking. The studio is a hive of activity after dark, I think, a little ashamed of myself for being so reluctant to come at night. Carolina’s right. I’m a snob.
    Quinn gives us a couple of tips about what we’re supposed to be doing with our heads and hands, which of course gives everyone a bit more to think about, and then I rotate down to Steve and it all falls apart.
    I don’t have the words to sufficiently describe the horror of dancing with this man. He is Jell-O. Soft in his arms, in his hips, in his whole frame. His hand on my back is so ineffectual that I quickly flash back to Mark, after the first heart attack, trying to have sex without getting too excited, the frightening feel of a frightened man in your arms. He does not turn me. I turn myself but he is slow in his own turn so we clang our shoulders together when we try to go into the sweetheart pose and I rock back before him, almost pulling him off his feet. He looks down his patrician nose at me.
    “Don’t rush it,” he says. “You were early on the rock step.”
    Don’t rush it? I’m flooded with rage. I was completely on the beat. He was slow. He