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“He loves it. Yeah, it’s been good for him.”
“That’s good,” she says softly.
We walk down the hallway, still hand in hand. “This is the bathroom. Always good to know.”
She laughs as I bring her to the end of the hallway. “And our rooms. But …” I lean down to whisper in her ear, “I really want a sandwich right now.”
Her laugh is louder as she follows me back to the kitchen.
“Do you want one?”
“No, I ate plenty. My mom usually picks these up, but my brother did this time and grabbed a box of a hundred. Hence, the leftovers.”
“I could eat a hundred of these by myself,” I say, opening the box and taking out one of the thin sandwiches. I scarf one down quickly and grab another, taking a bite as she watches me with a smile, leaning against the counter. Comfortably like she’s meant to be here. My eyes can’t help but follow her body down, herdress that ends above her knee, her feet in casual sandals, her toes painted a dark red.
“What?” she asks curiously.
“I like you here.”
Her smile gets wider, a light blush on her cheeks. “Thought we were dancing.”
“Of course. Let’s dance.” I walk over to her and offer her my hand. She takes it without hesitation, this feeling like stepping into worn-in shoes.
We start slow, as I hum a song in her ear. A close embrace, the only one I ever want with her, temple to temple, heart to heart.
“This is nice,” she says in mine.
“You’re doing great, by the way.”
“You might be obligated to say that.” She chuckles.
We turn in rhythm and her moves look so polished, so effortless. “I’m still having fun dancing with you,” I say.
“But you still want to quit?”
I falter. “We don’t need to talk about that now.”
We let the dancing do the talking instead, conversations with our legs and turns and movement. I keep humming, but the tempo has slowed significantly. With a side step and a giro, she turns and hooks her leg onto my thigh, executed beautifully.
“Is that how the enganche goes?” she whispers.
“Just like that.”
My mouth hovers over hers as we continue to move slowly. But somewhere along the line, we lose the formality of it. My leg comes between hers and she straddles my thigh, swaying side to side as she does. I lean down and kiss her neck. Small kisses along her jaw, behind her ear. She sighs with each kiss I give her, and all I can do is hold her tighter.
Time. She likes time.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
“Taking my time,” I tell her, kissing her lips softly.
“You are trouble.” She smiles.
“Am I?”
“You’re going to get me used to all this luxury, and then what happens when the lessons are over?” She laughs softly when she asks this, like it’s funny and maybe a little rhetorical, but it just feels like a punch in the gut to me.
“The lessons have nothing to do with you and me,” I tell her, pulling back so she can see my face. “Whether I quit or not has nothing to do with you and me. In fact, you should stop paying me.”
