Page 39 of It's a Brewtiful Day
“What do you like to dance to?” he asked.
I ignored the last part of the phrase. “Are you streaming?”
Because that would be amazing. It would mean there was a signal, and we could call for help.
“I wish. Still no signal, but, I have a lengthy catalogue of downloaded music. What’s your top pick?”
“I don’t know, Taylor Swift?” But I only said it as a joke. I didn’t expect him to have any of her songs on his phone, although mine was packed with TayTay favourites.
“Sure. Which album?”
“What seriously? I was kidding.” I wanted to laugh but curiosity got the better of me and I peeked into the options as he scrolled.
“I’m not. In your opinion, what’s her best album?”
I rocked back and forth on my feet. Picking a favourite was an impossible choice. I scratched my head, suddenly feeling self-conscious as my finger caught in a few knots. My hair was a mess, and I wished I had a hair tie. I tucked my hands into my red leather jacket, desperately searching for a random elastic to no avail.
Elliot stood there watching me. A small grin teased his lips.
“Um…Fearless? OrRed,or maybe1989?”
“Ah, all classic Taylor. Awesome.” Hethumbed through his phone and selected the1989album. “Shall we dance?”
My joyful expression fell. “What?”
“You mean to tell me at the end of the workday when you’re closing up by yourself that you don’t crank the tunes and do a little shuffle?”
Had he watched?
“I hardly shuffle,” I said defensively. “Isn’t that a dance craze from the sixties or something?” Not that I knew. I’d tried ballet and jazz as a child but failed miserably. My dance instructor even told my mother I wasn’t ballet material.
“I doubt it, but you don’t burn off steam and just dance around?”
“Yeah, but no one’s there to watch me look like I’m having a seizure.”
“I highly doubt it’s that bad, and besides, there’s no one here, except me, and I swear I won’t judge.” He set his phone, with the display turned off, into the bowl asShake It Offstartedplaying and echoing off the metal amplifier. It was surprising how the sound filled the space.
“Fine. I’ll just have to dance by myself.” He was already moving.
And he did. Elliot bounced and shimmied, and not necessarily to the beat, but he looked like he didn’t give two nickels about how he appeared. It was truly refreshing. In my past, guys had been concerned with what car they drove, their job title, the clothing labels, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, but not Elliot.
By the time Taylor got to the chorus, I couldn’t help myself and tossed my red jacket onto the chair and joined in, doing my best dance aerobic moves, which looked nothing like how I envisioned. However, I let loose, and like Elliot, I didn’t care either. It was cathartic.
We bobbed and danced toSummer of ’69and followed that with a Bon Jovi classic—It’s My Life—before we busted a serious move toHolidayby Green Day.
The next song came on … a much slower melody.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Elliot said, walking over to the metal bowl. “Let me skip.”
“Don’t. I’m okay with it if you are.” Breathlessly, I took his hand into mine and stared into his eyes.
“You’re sure?”
“It’s a slow dance, and I’m not thirteen. I promise it’s fine.”
I wrapped my left arm around his neck and slightly extended my other tightly tangled with his hand, feeling as natural as I ever had with another guy.
His right hand looped around my waist.