“You like it.”
“I do.”
We walked toward her apartment holding hands. At the building entrance, she stopped.
“This is where the date ends.”
“Public location rule?”
“First real date.”
“Do you have a third-date policy?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
She kissed my cheek.
“Good night, Dani.”
“Good night, Amy.”
The use of my name felt intimate. I watched her enter the building. Then I walked home without needing to make the moment funny.
Four days later, I danced with Amy in an empty gym studio. The incident began because Blake had changed the playlist for my evening class. It was full of slow songs unsuitable for circuit training. After closing, I stayed to rebuild the music queue. Amy arrived to pick up the new recovery plan Miguel had printed. She stood in the doorway while an old soul song played through the speakers.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Blake’s emotional sabotage.”
“It is not appropriate for burpees.”
“Nothing is.”
She walked into the studio. The lights were dim except near the mirrors. I held out my hand.
“Dance.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“There is no structure.”
“Exactly.”
Music from the closed studio next door leaked faintly through the wall. Amy listened as though it might provide instructions.
“I do not dance.”
“You do partner yoga.”
“Badly.”
“Beautifully.”
She looked at my hand.
