In a sweaty Jazz cave a few stories underground near the Notre Dam I asked an older man to swing dance.
He said no.
I’d been watching him for a while. I think as a woman we’re predisposed to seek out the men in the room who are kind, seem to know a lot of women, and don’t make our skin crawl. He checked all my dancing partner boxes.
H and I found ourselves in this jazz cave with another couple we’ve met while traveling. (Funnily enough the couple is also from Florida, the same as the couple my parents met—and stayed friends with—from their travels. You can read about them in the Australia blog.)
If you know H and I, you know when we get near a dance floor I like to dance and he likes to people watch in the corner. At this point in the night I WANTED to dance and I chose a man.
When he said no I was a bit shocked and H started giggling profusely.
While he didn’t outright say “no” he did say, “next song”. And at the close of the song he didn’t come back. I saw him move around the dance floor twirling other people.
My pride forced me to lose track of him.
30 minutes later I had a tap on the shoulder, mystery man handed my drink to H, and held out his arm with a “madame” and a flourish.
My ego forgave him and we twirled around the dance floor. Me attempting to relax and let him lead, him smiling and telling me I was marvelous even when I kept bumping into him.
As the song ended he bowed and was onto his next partner.