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She’s slender, and she moves her hips as well as her feet. I think she can dance.
“Do you always wear black?” I ask.
She shrugs.
“If you’re hoping it makes you invisible,” I say, “you’re very wrong.”
She looks up into my eyes, and her lips curve up. “So, Norman,” she says, making me grin, “are you always this bold?”
“Yeah. And my name’s Saxon.”
“Saxon?”
“It means sharp blade.”
“Are you trying to tell me you have an impressive weapon?”
I chuckle, liking this girl more and more with each minute. Some women are uncomfortable with flirtation and innuendo, which I understand completely when so many men can be obnoxious. I’m always—usually—careful to watch what I say with women I don’t know. But in my group of friends we tease each other and make near-the-knuckle jokes all the time, and I prefer women who can give as good as they get, rather than take offense at the mere mention of sex.
The jukebox changes to a slow, sultry song, and there’s a cheer and then laughter from behind us. Someone’s put on Eric Clapton’sChange the Worldfor us to dance to, possibly Mack, I think, as I know he likes the singer.
We move a little closer together, and I listen to Clapton singing about being the sunlight in his lover’s universe. His words puzzle me. I’ve dated quite a few girls, some for longer than others, and even lived with one for several months, but I’ve never been in love the way Clapton sings it. I’ve wanted to change the world, but not for a girl. Not for love. It’s difficult not to think that it’s a fabrication invented by songwriters and greeting card manufacturers.
I can imagine being with a girl like Catie, someone beautiful, sexy, funny, and great in bed. But will someone ever be the sunlight in my universe? I can’t imagine it, somehow. I’m too cynical. I don’t need it, anyway. I’m happy with what I have right here, right now.
“How old are you?” I murmur, thinking what smooth skin she has.
“Twenty-three,” she says. “Twenty-four in November. You?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Her gaze has dropped to my mouth—she’s thinking about kissing me. Her eyes lift back to mine. “Who’s the scariest Timelord?”
I roll my eyes, but say, “I don’t know.”
“Doctor Boo.” She smiles. “Thanks for playing along.”
I chuckle, my thumbs brushing her waist. When she looks up, her eyes sparkling, I say, “Wanna dance properly?”
Her lips curve up. “Sure.”
I take her right hand in my left and, guiding her with my right hand on her back, I move her around the tiny dance floor. Oh, she’s good, reading me well, her hips moving with mine. I sing as we turn, and when the chorus hits again and I spin her away from me, she comes gracefully back into my arms, laughing when those watching us cheer.
We continue to dance, turning in circles under the orange and white fairy lights.
“You can really move,” she says, leaning closer, her lips nearer to my ear, so I can hear her above the music. “Who taught you to dance?”
I shiver as her breath whispers across my skin. “It might not sound that sexy, but it was my mum.”
She giggles as I spin her round. “Aw, that’s lovely.”
“I grew up watching my parents dancing around the living room. They used to win competitions.” I spin her away, then pull her back into my arms again. “What about you?”
She shrugs. “Taught myself.”
When the song draws to a close, we continue to dance, to fast songs and slow, old songs and new, just enjoying being close and moving to the music.
At one point, while we’re dancing to Doja Cat’sKiss Me More, Catie asks, “Are you single?”
