TWH: Word Prompt Challenges

Why don't we just dance?

A night of intentional avoidance - all on my part I assure you because he's Too Pure For Such Things - spoiled for him cornering me near the open bar.

"Here you are!"

Here I am. Yes, Hiddleston, well spotted. We'd flirted on set years ago and I still harbor feelings for him, but take a poll and find the outlier in the room that doesn't. Key to all of this: years ago. We fell out of touch a few months after wrapping on the project. I was sure, until this very moment, that he wouldn't remember me. Here he stands, looming over me as only a man of his height can manage, radiant as ever. There is no escaping from someone that towers a head above most everyone else in the room.

"Hey," I try to make myself heard over the music, "It's good to see you!" Standard greeting in Hollywood: a version of saving face and pretending familiarity even if there is none.

It gets me a frown from him in return. "Now what sort of hello is that?"

He stoops for what I presume will be his usual kiss to each cheek hello, but then he wraps his arms around me to lift me up in a tight hug. The subsequent squeak I emit is audible over the thump of the bass and turns a few heads of those standing nearby.

As soon as he sets me down again I prompt him with a question. I already know the answer but if I can get him talking then the awkwardness of this might dissipate. "How've you been?"

I wonder which of us will crack first and begin the series of apologies that will never end. Hazily, a memory surfaces, a night similar to this one – our wrap party that celebrated the successful conclusion of a project. It had been a bittersweet celebration for knowing that these people we had been seeing day in and day out for weeks on end would be going on to other things. There were feelings harbored but not acted upon. Things left unspoken in favor of an easier goodbye.

"Busy," comes Tom's reply, "happily busy. Um, but... I'm trying to remember the last time we talked? We've let far too much time pass."

Smiling up at him I can practically see him hit upon the memory of our last exchange, then attempt to factor out the exact number of days. Maths. Best to save him from that. The bartender has set out a fresh round of drinks. Clear liquid in slender shot glasses that beg to be swallowed. I reach over to snag one for myself and one for Tom, waiting until he accepts the offering before nodding to him and tossing mine back.

It burns on the way down, and I scrunch up my nose as a result. Tom pulls a similar face, one eye closing entirely and I wish like hell I could've captured the moment. I kiss my lips to my teeth and swallow, asking him the question I know will get an enthusiastic YES: "Tom? Why don't we just dance?"