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“Oh my God, for real. That song has to be canceled, right?”
A middle-aged woman behind Lauren cleared her throat. In Spanish, the woman lamented how politically correct new generations were. How there were going to end up with no music and no art. She then pointed out how the song was set in the 1600s, as if that somehow made it any better.
Ignoring her, Sylvie turned around to face the woman waiting in line ahead of her. She was in too good of a mood to get annoyed with someone only interested in hearing herself talk.
When Sylvie was finally just a few steps from the bathroom door, Pedro Navaja, the song about the would-be assailant who was shot by his intended victim, flooded the corridor.
“Oh, shit.” Lauren laughed.
Sylvie spun around, chuckling at the coincidence that the band was playing one of the songs they’d been discussing. All the music they’d mentioned were mainstays, there was no question they’d be played at some point in the evening, but it was amusing that they heard one while waiting in the endless line.
“We’re going to have to dance to this,” Lauren decided, her face brightened by her broad smile. “It’s a sign from the salsa gods.”
Lauren’s hand extended toward her was strange and confusing. Sylvie couldn’t see how this was part of a plot to humiliate her, but it had to be. If she reached out to take her hand, Lauren was going to laugh in her face. She was sure of it.
“Oh come on,” Lauren insisted, her open palm still invading Sylvie’s personal space.
As Sylvie debated the risk of looking foolish, Lauren started to retract her hand. “Oh, I get it. You don’t know how to dance. Sorry.”
“Oh, please. I dance way better than you.” Sylvie snatched Lauren’s hand just before it landed at her side.
With Lauren’s warm hand in hers, Sylvie’s skin erupted with a rush of heat so violent there was no way she wasn’t wearing it on her face.
Instinctually, they both went for the lead position. After Sylvie stepped on Lauren’s toes, they shifted. Lauren slid her hand up Sylvie’s arm and rested it on her bare shoulder. Sylvie maintained her hold on Lauren’s upper back. Without a fight, Lauren gave up the dominant position.
To the rhythm of the song, Lauren matched every step forward with Sylvie’s step back. It only took a few seconds for Sylvie to relax and lose herself to the beat.
Lauren didn’t stop smiling as they moved in time. Exhilarated, Sylvie let herself dance without overthinking. In comfortable control, she added a little flair.
With a spin, she held Lauren closer. Entranced by her warmth and the sweetness of her perfume, she spun her out of line.
In the ample corridor, they spread out. No matter the kind of spin or turn Sylvie threw at her, Lauren followed. It was like they’d choreographed the dance. Like they’d planned the moment.
When Sylvie crossed their arms and spun her hard, Lauren ducked and turned in perfect synchronization. When she pulled her back in, Lauren rolled in her arm, leaving Sylvie holding her from behind in an embrace so tight that it left Lauren’s lips inches from hers when the song ended.
“Holy shit, Campos. You can dance,” Lauren whispered.
Lauren’s eyes were incandescent. They were unevenly dark waters showing swaths of impossible depth and slivers were the light touched the bottom creating a brown so brilliant it burned red. They were smoky quartz, polished to reflect Sylvie’s soul while concealing Lauren’s from view. Sylvie was lost. Unable to move. To think. To breath.
The sound of clapping yanked Sylvie back to her body. While they’d danced, she’d completely forgotten where they were. Disoriented, she released Lauren.
“Maybe there is hope for future generations after all,” a woman at the front of the line said with a laugh. “Go on girls, you earned permission to skip.”
Dazed, Sylvie made it to a stall. In the quiet confines she tried to understand what she’d just done. With a sick feeling in her stomach, she wondered how Lauren planned to use the moment of weakness against her.
