Crossing the line

Dancing

She didn't like high school dances much; too loud, bad music and drunk students were not the ideal combination. Albeit she loved to dance, Frances wasn't the type to blend in much as she preferred to watch from afar. Give her ice skates and Hans Zimmer music and she would burst with joy. A salsa, a tango, a walz or rock'n'roll and a good partner just as well, even though she didn't master any of those disciplines as well as she would like to. She was too old – her soul didn't belong – for dance, techno and other horrendous stuff. With a little luck, the playlist would include some vintage music. The blues brothers, Sting, perhaps some Queen as well ? Those ones she could enjoy without a partner.

For the long, flaring dress of dark blue and the light make up she had conceded to apply weren't meant for a boyfriend; no time for that. Or rather, no space in her heart, for it was consumed by another. An unthinkable crush that could never become anything more than a fantasy. Yet, her eyes searched for his face whenever she passed the school doors. His tall frame, lithe and strang at the same time, his purposeful strides and chiselled features might have won on their own, but she also knew the warmth of his embrace, and the smell of his cologne. Knew the beauty of his secretive smile and how to read the gleam of interest that sometimes showed in his grey eyes. He was, to her, the most handsome man she'd ever met, with a magnetism that never fail to attract her. She was the iron to his magnetite.

And tonight would be the last time she saw him; tomorrow would come quickly enough. And while her eyes roamed the crowded gymnasium – left to her own devices – she missed the tall figure that watched her from afar, drinking in a flask that returned inside his vest pocket. The previous song ended merrily, couples and loners alike cheering, leaving space for a quick silence. Frances wondered what would come next, good or bad ? Danceable, or without spine ? A modern rhythm box with an equally talentless lady singing an easy tune ?

The first bars of Mark Knopfler's secondary waltz echoed in the gymnasium, earning a few disapproving frowns. A Waltz ! No one knew how to dance such a thing expect a few freaks and the teachers. A full smile bloomed upon Frances' rosy lips, wondering if her geography teacher had had a hand in choosing the music, or if it was pure coincidence. Yet... a waltz, sung by one of her favourite artists none the less ! This was her lucky day... she couldn't imagine how true this statement was. Suddenly, the dance floor cleared up; only a few couples remained, most of them not even following the steps but enjoying their time together. Frances remembered fondly the day her grandfather had taught her waltzing, feet naked, over the sand of southern Spain. She'd been twelve then; the best vacation of her life.

— "May I have this dance ?", a familiar voice echoed in her ear.

She whirled around in surprise, smacking into a dark shirted chest whose scent she would have recognised anywhere. Her little nose scrunched; alcohol mingled in the so cherished fragrance as a warm hand stabilised her.

— "Sorry", he said. "I didn't mean to startle you but the sound is rather loud."

Was it a good enough excuse to stand so close ? Probably not, but Frances was so overwhelmed by his presence that she barely nodded. Her geography teacher extended his hand, and the cogs in her mind started working again. Dance ? A waltz, with him ?

There were a thousand reasons why she shouldn't. The most obvious one; she was in love with this man... this very married man. The ring still shone upon his finger, the herald of doom stating that she could never have him. But hell, if he was going to leave her life for the rest of eternity, she was entitled to one last moment in his arms. His grey eyes watched her face, his posture straight enough; despite her fears, he wasn't too drunk. So she smiled, and slid her hand into his. Touching him, skin to skin, for the first time.

It felt like the last link of a chain snapping close, connecting both sides of a circle. A vibrant bond, as the heat of her fingers pulsated around his. And Mark Knopfler, oblivious to the war raging in her chest, went on. Talking of waltzing and high school girls. How strangely fitting.

Mr Kristiansen led her to the dance floor, leaving her hand until he turned around to face her. With the low lights, she had trouble reading his expressions. He stood tall now and pulled his arm aside to set the correct distance for a waltz. Then, flashing her a mischievious, he stepped a little closer. Frances gasped, feeling very much like Rose in Titanic, when, for the first time of her life, a man had invaded her space; his scent reached her anew, his body not touching hers, but a breath apart. She could feel the heat of his frame radiating, passing through the fabric of her dress so easily. Her head titled to the side; she just couldn't meet his gaze from that close. The man didn't protest, splaying his other hand on her upper back. She had to take a deep breath before she lifted her own limb to circle his lithe frame. There, there were intertwined now.

One, two, three beats and they were off waltzing. At first, little steps to let them adjust to each other. It wasn't difficult; Mr Kristiansen was a strong leader. Not forceful, but she found that she loved following him. Who would have known that their geography teacher enjoyed such an archaic thing as waltzing ? And she had no doubt that he enjoyed it, for after a while, she lifted her eyes to meet his and found pure delight blooming in his grey irises. He was so incredibly handsome, with this smile upon his face and mid long hair dancing about. And that little something, that gleam that passed in his gaze was so intense that she blushed and had to look away.

His hold upon her back shifted slightly, his fingers tightening ever so subtly that she doubted anything had happened at all until the music paused – a tiny second – before it picked up again. But her partner decided to sway backwards, a grin pulling at his lips. Frances almost stumbled; she had not been expecting such a break in the waltzing. His arms secured her instantly, pulling her a little closer as he imprinted slow sways, following the leisurely pace of the song for a few precious seconds. He marked a pause again, and resumed the proper direction.

Fortunately, the dance floor was nearly deserted, allowing some fantasy. His eyes twinkled in delight when, this time, she followed his lead without missing a beat. Like a leaf in the wind, desperately clinging to her branch, Frances swayed against him. Led by strong arms, lost in a warm embrace, unable to do anything but surrender to his will as her body enjoyed the exertion. She was dancing, flying, turning again and again, supported every step of the way by that man she so admired. Such an intimate embrace, yet all proper from the outside; despite the waltz position, she felt her body burn. Her heart beat in her palm, where her skin intertwined with his so easily. For a moment she just closed her eyes and abandoned all sense of control. He wouldn't lead her astray, would he ?

And when the song came to an end, she didn't expect him to twist around and bend at the waist playfully, sending her plummeting backwards. Yet, there was no stress when she should have jolted. Instead, Frances held onto his hand, trusting him to keep her from falling as she arched her back, unfurling like a cat, her only lifeline the geography teacher whose feet remained firmly planted in the ground. An infectious grin spread over his lips, the biggest smile she had ever witnessed on his usually reserved features; it left her too dazzled to speak. So when he set her onto her feet, Frances was entirely too flustered to realise her hand still clutched his, or that the next song was a rock'n'roll that she adored. Standing beside him, gazing in the most beautiful eyes, the world seemed to melt away.

— "You all right, Frances?"