Lionel Ritchie crooned across the dance floor. I held you in my arms, leading you into the romantic rhythm of the music as I sang the lyrics to you.
After the dance I led you back to the table, attending to your needs as any gentleman should – including a red rose from the seller wandering around the bar because it made you smile. Every romantic dance number and you wanted to dance so I would lead you out on to the dance floor. The glitzy dress you were wearing captured the lights and you knew they all could see you as we danced.
Each time we sat at the table you’d gaze at me as if hanging off every word I was saying – the perfect picture of a woman in love. Except we weren’t talking love, you were telling me your story. Just like all my other ladies you tell me your story passing the time between dances until the slow numbers. Then you could get up close and personal.
You were always the same. Tonight was no different, we slow0moved for a couple of songs then you smooched in closer resting your head on my chest, your fingers stroking around the nape of my neck. Then you looked up at me and I kissed you so gently it took your breath away and we danced until it was time to walk you back home to the retirement complex. From the pavement I watched you go in knowing you felt like a queen. My job is done.
Back home I placed the envelope of cash next to my sleeping wife. Another payment towards the medical bills for our sick child. Tonight is done, back to the day job tomorrow until another dance floor and another lady wanting to be a queen.
©JG Farmer 2018