“This is inefficient.”
“Rule ten.”
“Aspirational.”
“Try.”
Amy placed her hand in mine. I pulled her gently closer. One hand at her waist. One hand holding hers.
“Step left,” I said.
“Your left or mine?”
“Yours.”
“That should be specified.”
“Now right.”
We moved. She watched our feet.
“Look at me.”
“That increases error.”
“Trust.”
Trustmade her lift her head. We found a simple rhythm. Amy’s body relaxed gradually. The song moved around us. No camera. No spectators. Only mirrors and low light. She smiled.
“You are enjoying this,” I said.
“I am tolerating it.”
“With your teeth?”
“That is becoming repetitive.”
“It’s still accurate.”
She stepped closer. My hand tightened at her waist. The dance became less instructional. More intimate. Amy’s face was inches from mine.
“I need to tell you something,” I said.
The secret mileage sat there. I had told her part. Not all. She deserved numbers.
“I ran eight miles last Sunday before dinner.”
Amy stopped moving.
“That is more than you told me.”
“I said six to eight.”
“You said once or twice a week.”
“I’ve done eight twice.”
“Are you increasing?”
