The Dance

by Greg McBride

Touching was for marriage, I had learned
at home, and church, so when they gave us lessons
in the gym, I hoped that it would be ok.
Beautiful Simone chose me as her partner,
her skin glowing the soothing olive
of the Sephardim, while I was confused
by the mysteries of attraction: her shapely legs
in algebra, her black hair swept across
her flawless face, a few strands wisping
over one dark eye. The needle dropped,
and the music scratched its way out
of game–score loudspeakers swinging
from the rafters overhead. She stepped
into my arms like a starlet, head tossed,
gazing toward some distant horizon,
our touching of little interest to her,
it seemed. But she pulled me into her warmth,
tight, and oh, the pain — her breast felt
like the sharp nose of a rocket launched
into my chest. It was her gift to me,
while I, in stifled anguish, clenched my teeth
and tried to imagine her fresh, young breast,
so close to me then, how nice it might feel
without steel. Only later would I learn
about the fifties’ Bullet Bra. One day,
we stepped into an elevator. The doors closed.
We were alone. Her skirt gauzy. Her talk
of training in dance, the strength of her legs.
She said that this, patting one rear cheek,
is the real source of power. I could give it
a feel, she said. Go ahead, she said,
and I did, and I knew, instantly,
that she was right.