Rhetorics

18. Lindy Hop (Madara)

I checked my phone once more. This is ridiculous. You're a grown man behaving like a lovesick female teenager.

But I kept checking my Facebook messages anyway. No answer in over a day. I saw he'd been online, but he hadn't read my messages. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and our last meeting in parliament before the election. At least I would see him then. But it was agony. And I was worried. All of the media storm could easily put him in danger. Me as well, but that was another thing.

I needed to talk to someone. I wanted to contact my friends in my party so bad, but I knew I couldn't. They'd been angry with me since that day in the club when I'd been friendly with Hashirama. I didn't even want to imagine how they felt now after the media turmoil. And suddenly, I felt desperate to have my parents back.

I sat down on my couch, leaned my face in my hands. I grabbed my hair and twisted it around, feeling my white t-shirt stretch against my chest as I putty unruly mane in a bun. I wore my hair loose most days now as Hashirama liked it so much and I enjoyed catering for him, but now, I needed my face free to the air as the air contained my emotions, and I needed to let my face be washed by them instead of hiding from them. I breathed through gritted teeth as I thought about my parents that I'd lost so long ago, wondered who they'd be now had they lived. They had always been supportive of my choices, of my sexuality. My mother had been warm and kind, my father a bit more stern but righteous, and I knew he would be there for me in a heartbeat had I only asked.

Father, I am so fed up with it. I don't know if I want to do politics anymore. But that's why I do it. I do it because I know that if it's one thing politics need, it's people who don't want to do politics. And mother, what should I do about the man? As a politician, I hate him, but as a man, I love him. I love him. If it's someone, it's him but I'm not naive enough to believe I can change him. Is it worth hanging around to see if he can change himself? Oh, you should've seen him yesterday with Miss Asghar! I've never seen a human glow so much with new experience! Who knew something as simple as pushing an old lady around could bring a man of his status, of his calibrate so much joy? I want to offer him the world, but he will have to choose between it, and his politics. And I'm worried. I'm worried about why he won't answer me. And, I hate to admit it, I'm not only worried that something has happened to him, but I'm also worried about my own heart. I've never had my heart broken before. Is it time I learn how it feels?

I allowed myself to imagine myself sitting opposite Hashirama in a cafe, drinking coffee together with him. I wondered how he took his. With oat milk, I imagined, as I drank mine black and we were opposites in so many ways. I imagined revealing to him, finally revealing the truth about my parents, what I'd wanted to tell him from the day he'd told me his parents had been killed by an Asian gang.

I picked my phone up. I hadn't asked about his number, and it was most definitely private and unsearchable due to his fame, as was mine, but I tried calling on Facebook. Still no answer. I tried imagining what advice my mother would give.

You can't have friends in only one social circle. With your status in politics, that's too fragile. You need your politicians friends. You need your friends from the library and the cafe where you work. You need Miss Asghar and the other residents. But you also need new friends. I know you like the gym, but a few times a week, try something else. Something more social.

I checked the time. It was early. I packed my bag of workout clothes and went out, taking a rocky road protein bar to munch on. I walked to the city centre, no plan. For an hour, I walked in the crispy winter sun, the ice gleaming on the trees. There was too much traffic for the snow to create a thick layer, but you saw traces of what would've been if the area had been free of human intervention; a corner covered in slush, a hint of white on the bare tree branches. I liked it a lot.

Then, I stopped. I was outside a building I'd walked past a million times with Miss Asghar but never really noticed. Above the door was a sign that I had seen several times but never taken in.

Lindy hop, the sign said.

I didn't allow myself to think about it; I just went in.

"Hi. I would like to sign up, please."

"Oh, you're in lucky", the lady behind the desk said. If she recognised me, she didn't show it. "We have a class starting in fifteen minutes."

Lindy hop was, I learned, a pair dance where the leader and follower could switch, being both men and women and non-binaries, making the dance highly popular with LHBTQ people. I danced with everyone there. I led. I followed. I talked. I laughed. I sweated until I was drenched. I swore to come back next session, in between Christmas and New Year's. I had so much fun, I forgot almost everything about politics and fanfiction and my party and Hashirama and my broken heart. Was this what you meant, mother?

I was smiling beyond myself as I created something new for myself then, the beginning of a friendship with a group of people I would learn to trust and talk to, that would be there for me and who didn't treat me like a famous politician but like one of them. Who didn't judge me for who I fell in love with.

I created a safety network for me to fall back on when politics let me down.

And I would also become a terrific Lindy hop dancer.

I wish I had been close to them when I found out what Hashirama had been up to while I couldn't get hold of him.