Saturday, May 15, 2010

Not Like That Dork

He actually had a fencing scar. It slashed sharply upward like an arrow pointing to his smoothly bald head. He took my hand and raised me from the table, leaning over to kiss me fingers. I felt like I was in a romance novel. On the dance floor he drew me towards him, but not too close. Not like the stumbling dork who had been stepping on my toes during the last dance. With just enough pressure applied to the small of my back, he guided me around the room in a swirling arc. My feet barely skimmed the floor.

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