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And then he begins cracking his knuckles. He pops the index finger and starts on his middle one but stops himself, furiously stuffing his hands in his front pockets.
I pause.
“Wa sum?” I ask through my currently occupied mouth, spooning up the perfect ratio and holding it out to him.
He winces, then laughs. “Uh, no, thank you. I’ll be gallant and let you enjoy it.”
Perky appears to the left, holding an enormous fried thing, about a foot long and the diameter of a soda can, on a giant marshmallow stick like you use for roasting over a campfire.
“Preparing for pregnancy?” she says to me, making a sour face at the pickles. “No. You’re just being Mallory. You’ve eaten that crap every year since fifth grade.”
“No,” I correct her. “I missed last year.” I study the thing on a stick she’s holding. “Either that is the biggest fried Twinkie ever, or you’ve cut the head, tail, and legs off a dachshund and deep fried it.”
“It’s my new dildo,” she informs me with an outrageous sniff.
Will doesn’t laugh.
Peering at Will suspiciously, I can’t help but wonder what’s up. The weirdness he’s displaying is so out of character.
“Mallory! You and Will need to come up here!” Philippe shouts. For fun, Will and I have been taking tango lessons at Bailargo. Philippe uses the story of how we “met” at his studio in online advertising.
Bonus: it’s quickly edging out the porno-set shot of me with Will and Beastman as the number one online photo of me. Between Fiona’s brother and his reputation-management work and Bailargo’s ads, Mallory the Porn Queen is finally on page three of search results for my full name.
Which means it’s in the internet Doldrums.
Will takes my hand, his palm slick. I don’t mean to, but I flinch and pull back.
“C’mon!” he says with a smile that makes me even more wary.
Will Lotham never has sweaty hands. Ever. If his palms are wet, it’s because he’s showering, we’re in the middle of sex (TMI, but whatever), or he’s helping to shove a beached baby whale back into the ocean on Cape Cod.
I’m not making that last one up. He’s that perfect.
So why is he so nervous?
“May I have your attention, please!” Philippe says, his expression like an impish nine-year-old with a few shots of coffee in him, at a big chocolate-egg hunt on Easter. “We have a special tango demonstration for you!”
I look at the people assembled on stage.
Not one is under seventy.
“Gladys and Lou are doing tango now?” I ask Will, knowing they’re in the contra-dancing group, puzzled by the sudden change.
“Not them,” he says, gently taking my hand, his skin dry and smooth now. “Us.”
The first few notes of “Por una Cabeza” float into the air, making me smile reflexively.
Philippe catches my eye and winks.
Will takes my hand and pulls me close, belly to belly, his belt scratching my navel, his hand on my back tight. Firm. Unyielding.
Claiming.
As he spins me, thighs crashing into each other then holding steady, I look for the other dancers. This is the point in the song where everyone joins in, the empty dance floor filling, like ants to a pinch of sugar.
But no one does.
It’s just me and Will.
