I Don't Dance

I Don't Dance

He never knew why he kept coming back. Usually on a Friday, he’d come popping in, opening the doors to greet an alternate universe of endless beer, tobacco, and pretty ladies. It’s not like he was an alcoholic, or a smoker, or a womanizer (though a few would disagree on the latter). People would be dancing, smoke rising to the ceiling as mouths puffed on the ends, lights going on and off in a frenzy of a million different colors, following in sync with whatever played; and he’d be sitting at that bar like it was a home away from home.

“Y’gonna dance, Roy?” the bartender would ask him every time he say him, filling up a glass of beer like it was a routine, a grin hanging below the man’s mustache with an amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“I don‘t dance, Reuben.” would come the reply as the younger man, no more than 23 years of age, would press his fingers along the side of his drink, water and cold lightly cooling the calluses on his hands, a signification of a long week at work.

Then he’d sit around and talk. Being a regular, he knew many of the other bar-goers and had befriended just about anyone who had come in on a weekly basis. From the quiet guy who drank at the bar for an escape from a troubling divorce to the obnoxious pool player who challenged any poor soul who walked within the confines of his table for a game, he knew most of them and the stories they held. When it came to women, it was somewhat of a different story.

“Come on, Roy!”

“Let‘s dance, Barton.”

“You know you wanna!”

Even those pretty girls, clad in the tallest high heels their feet could manage, moving their hips in miniskirts, long legs, luscious waving hair, and their sweet, sweet voices could not convince him to get on that dance floor. His friends would laugh about it.

“So much for being old-fashioned. He breaks the tradition of guys asking girls to dance. Lucky guy.”

Nevertheless, he stuck to his word. He never danced. It became a running gag of gossip as to why he didn’t. Some said he was shy, others said he had two left feet, and a few just thought he had a bad knee from his days in the National Guard. Roy, or Noah as he’d been called in most of his younger days, would be the first to tell you these rumors were false. But if you were to ask what the real reason was, he’d just answer, “I don’t dance.”

It was another lie. He’d danced before in his youth, or whatever you could call a teenage boy dancing. School parties, school dances, sometimes those drunken stupors he’d participated in at a friends house, all were places he’d either danced alone in mockery or grabbed a girl and swung her with him. However, it wasn’t to say he liked it; in fact, he hated it. The embarrassment that came with it was unbearable, and he didn’t like doing something that seemed so out of place. It was more for the entertainment of his friends and dates than anything.

Truth be told, there were two people he’d ever really wanted to dance with. The first had been one of his former- curse that word- girlfriends, but that was a story he rarely told. The reason why was never quite determined, it seemed like a part of him he wanted to keep to himself, as if he’d forget everything about the subject should it escape from his lips. But there was a separate story he would tell of a sweet Hispanic woman he’d met one day sitting around.

It had began about a few months into his coming to the bar. He was fairly new, but getting around and knowing people. Already he’d become a great friend with the bartender, and of course Sawyer the obnoxious pool player (and practically the life of the bar itself). But he never danced.

The night was more of a morning, one o’ clock, and the bar still wasn’t going to die. The booming sounds of speakers silenced any notion of feet on the dance floor, scuffling around and around. There was Roy sitting down in his barstool, downing his, surprisingly, third beer for the night.

“Hey, Papi lone wolf,” the slim figure of a black-haired woman came walking up to him, putting her hand on his shoulder and turning him slowly in his stool.

“Hm?” he blinked softly a few times, his curiosity sparked.

“Dance with me, Papi.”

“The name’s Roy,” he said with somewhat of a chuckle, commenting to himself at her accent, turning fully around in his chair to look down at her, “and I don’t dance.”

“You don’t dance?”

“Yup.”

“You don’t dance.”

“I don’t dance.”

As if she couldn’t take no for an answer, she reached and took his hand in her own, delicate fingers tugging on his. His lips muttered a protest, but right as he did so, she pulled him toward her as she made her way to the dance floor, dragging a nervous blond man in her footsteps, her own black heels followed by the brown scuffed ones of a silly southern man.

“H-h-hey, um, ya didn’t, uh, tell me yer name!” Roy said loudly over the music, attempting to stop her. She didn’t until they were smack-dab in the middle of the dance floor, right between moving bodies and swishing dresses.

“Rosalina,” she responded, taking his hand and putting it on her waist, settling him closer to him.

“Oh.”

“Move your feet with mine.”

“I don’t dance.”

“I don’t care if you don’t dace, you will dance with me.”

Like some sort of miracle, his feet started moving and he moved his body closer. It wasn’t a sexual thing for him, in fact he didn’t feel any sort of affection for this woman whatsoever; but the act itself, the act of dancing, brought back memories from years ago that he knew he couldn’t get back. Reliving it for that moment was something he couldn’t explain, but it wasn’t the same as what he’d lived before. Perhaps that was the curse of reminiscing, the curse of remembering.

Rosalina, who had kept the man right under her gaze, from his head to his toes, had noticed his change of expression. “There is something about dancing that you have been hiding, Papi.”

“Ah… Maybe…” he muttered, taken aback.

“It reminds you of something, yes?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Someone?”

“Yup.”

“Tell me of this girl,” she demanded, though oddly there was no speculation of anger, only interest. Roy himself seemed perplexed by this, already gritting his teeth at the mention of his answer, but her tone soothed him a bit. “A man doesn’t sit at a bar and watch dancing couples for no reason. You are a good-looking man; surely you could find a date had you wanted to.”

“It’s a girl I was datin’ a while back.”

“And…?”

“We danced before. Well… Lotsa times but, y’know, it was a long while in the past… Ya could say…”

And his story went on. The whole time they dance, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, he would ramble on about one thing or another. Stories of the beginning where he’d met the girl from his past in a grocery store, occasionally trailing into another insignificant story that seemed to amuse him. And she would laugh. She’d laugh at the way his eyes lit up at some parts, the way he would mimic his father’s booming voice, the way he’d periodically move his hands to explain something while still trying to maintain a good dancing posture. Even if she wasn’t the one mostly talking at this point, she felt as if she were in good company, and as did he. It was not often he opened up to someone like this, but the way she read him at first glance made him feel as if he had nothing to hide.

As quickly as their dance had begun, it ended. Crowds of people began leaving, the smoke diminishing, and the lights dimming.

“You need to find your girl, Papi.”

“Gimme a smoke.”

Within minutes the two departed, saying goodbye like they would be two friends seeing each other again. They did many nights after that, and each time they saw each other they would dance. And his eyes would sparkle, and he’d tell tales again like they were the greatest memories. Rosalina figured, within time, she would probably become a living journal of this southern man’s life. Soon he would tell things so easily while they moved that it was almost breathless, as if second nature. Their relationship never escalated, they were always friends and nothing more. Strangely enough, like his meetings with the bartender, their conversations would always begin the same.

“Hey. Dance with me, Papi.”

“You know I don’t dance.”