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Have you ever had a man who knows how to dance carry you across a dance floor on your own feet? I don’t mean lift you up–I mean make you glide. His hands are in synchrony with the music, with his feet, with mine. The miracle of a choreographed dance is that you are taking two bodies and creating art with them in one motion.
It’s like sex.
Only more complicated, and with an audience.
He dips me, the crowd cheering, my eyes catching my mom and dad near the stage, holding hands. Half the town is here–maybe even most of it. Even Will’s parents, Helen and Larry, stand over by the garden club tent, watching us. They’re in town for a week, visiting Will and some old friends. Larry is behind her, the same strange smile on his dad’s mouth that Will just had.
Perky is ignoring her fried dildo, staring up at us with a silly grin. I’ve spent the afternoon running into everyone I know.
And loving it.
When Will pulls me back up, I giggle, his laughter infectious, the heat of his body against mine reigniting me. Every time his shoulder bumps mine, it becomes more real. Each time his foot nudges mine with a strong beat in the score, it echoes in my bones. We become the music, and it becomes us, until–oh, until.
Until he lets my hand go as I whirl, coming to a standstill, the dance routine ruined.
Questions pour out of me like fireworks, but I don’t say a word, because he drops.
He drops.
I know what it takes to be so graceful, his thigh muscles in perfect alignment, the strong knee bending with calibrated perfection that makes proposing look like a part of the dance. The music rolls on, sustaining the show while we break choreography. Light shines off the waves of his hair just so, as if Mother Nature decided to be a costume designer for this moment.
This unbelievable magic.
Our eyes meet.
He’s nervous.
Why is he nervous? Does he seriously think I would ever say no?
“Mallory Monahan,” he says, strong and loud, dark hair blown to the side of his cheek by a sudden wind.
People start to turn toward us, eyes narrowing, ears sharp. A few women have expressions like their hearts are melting.
Me, too, sisters. Me, too.
Sighs accrue, growing as they ripple through the townspeople at the craft tables. Vendors start to stand, looking at the dance floor we’re on.
“Mallory Monahan,” he repeats, so loud that it’s like a bullhorn, a public address system, a roar of joy. “Fifteen years ago we met for the first time in the hallway of Harmony Hills High. You had the locker next to mine. Eleven years ago we graduated and I left. One year ago I ran into you again –”
Half the crowd snickers. Clearly, the half on social media who saw the infamous Beastman picture.
“And I reversed my stupidity.”
Snickers turn to laughs.
“You are a delightful, brilliant, extraordinary force, Mallory. You know who you are and what you like and you use that as a divining rod through life. Every part of you is so true, so real. I want to be real with you, and true to you.”
Now sighs and sniffles fill the air. Including mine. His eyes are worlds, spinning and spinning, eternity inviting me to come in, find a comfy chair, have a cup of hot chai and stay a while.
In his arms.
“Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Mallory, will you marry me?” The jeweler’s box appears as if conjured, the glint of sunlight on the diamond so blinding. All I see is Will and the bright light.
Our bright future.
“Oh!” A woman’s gasp of joy makes me look to the right.
It’s Mom.
