I dunno. “You’ve seen me move.” I sidestep, “You think I can dance?”
“C’mon. You know what I mean.”
For a dancer, my peg-leg queen is pretty direct.
This begins our conversation. It begins many conversations—not just ours; many that waltz circles, gyring drains.
1,2,3,1,2,3…
The Pirate Queen and I have partnered together for over a year. We’ve cut rugs and corners, holding each other close—“one more song.” Nobody leads. Nobody follows. We clomp time, tripping on feet, and catching missteps. We’re not pretty to watch, but we work well together: I’ve got two left feet, and ol’ peggy, well, she doesn’t have any.
We started with Snow Patrol’s “Crack the Shutters.” That was our song. Now we move to the beat of our own drum. When she feels sexy, she’ll hammer-dance for me. When I feel sexy, I’ll hokey-pokey for her.
“You put your right leg in—“
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! You can stop right there!”
The queen’s conservative when it comes to dance moves.
Me, I’ll dance to anything that’s got a beat. That brings us back to today’s question.
“Are we?” Her question beats into my skull. The PQ doesn’t freestyle. Each dance has its moves, and each dancer steps in the red and blue footprints. Right now we’re dancing around the topic of moving on.
Ooops! I’ve stumbled. We’re not moving on from each other, just “moving on.”
She steps in, raises my arm, “I think you’re not looking for work out of state because of me.”
“Well…” I spin, “I am looking out of state, I’m just cherry picking my locations.” I move in, wrap my arm around her waist, and look into her eyes. “I’m looking at locations where we’d both be willing to move.”
The Queen dips backwards. I hold her. She bounces back up.
1,2,3…
“Me too.”
1,2,3…
“You’re looking for work?” I try flipping her though the air. I fail.
“No, I’m waiting for you.” Her left foot clips my ear; her right one sweeps my leg. We both go down in a Twister jumble of flesh. As we pull apart our dance reshapes into team Cobra Queen vs. Miyagi-Do Robby-san.
I’m craning with all my might. “What do you mean?”
She steps and thrusts, “I’m hoping you’ll find a job. If it’s here, I’ll find something I like better. If it’s somewhere else, I’ll follow.”
I counter with a block. “Uh…” Not as effective as it looks. I scramble backwards; my Queen moves for real.
So am I. “Well, if you’re looking,” I hop, and kick, “You know I’ll follow you where ever you go. I don’t need to stay here.” My crane isn’t what it used to be.
“That’s what I mean.” She bobs; I slice air. “I think we’re both dancing around, and nobody’s doing anything that they want. What do you want to do?”
Johnny, sweep the leg…
So there I am, lying on my ass, eyes wide, staring at my aggressor, without a leg to stand on. “Uhm…” It’s still an ineffective defense.
I know what I want, but everything I want has me dancing in circles. I want my house. I want a job. I want my book to sell. I want my queen.
That’s not true—not completely.
“I want you.” That part is true.
She reaches down and takes my hand, pulling me up, and into her embrace. “Me too.” We sway to each other’s heartbeat. No real moves, just high school innocence, rocking and turning, holding each other close. “But you’re coming to a decision point.”
“I know. “ I stare at the future, past her ear, leaning into her shoulder, “I’m gonna lose the house. There’s no work here.”
“Do you really want the house?” her hands cling to my neck.
“Yes and no.” I’m adrift, but she holds me up. “It’s a part of my past, but I’ve got so many memories in that house. Plus, it’s an obligation. I hate to step away…”
The Pirate pulls away, wrangling my eyes with hers. “It’s OK. You can move in with me,” her legs hold steady, but her hips sway with her music, “What’s next? What about a job.”
“I don’t know. I’m having trouble looking. I’m back at school, broadening my base.” I pull her back tight. I don’t know if I can look into her eyes and say the next words. “I’ve been thinking about school.”
“Yes,” she whispers in my ear.
I lock. I can’t move. “I’m thinking of going back. For real. I’m a writer, but I’m not growing here. I want to get my MFA.” As I speak, the words gain speed. They pour out of my mouth. No time. No meter—only spilling syllables pouring into her ear like Hamlet poison. “I don’t know that I need it, but I need the community. I need to grow. I’m stagnating here. I write words, but they lack purpose. If my pen is a sword--”
She giggles. “Oh, baby. You guys and your pens and swords.”
“No!” I pull back, meeting her eyes. I’ve waltzed out here, now I need to finish the dance, no matter how it ends. “You know what I mean. I need others to hone my skill—to be a better writer. I need—“
The music has stopped, and she’s smiling, staring, knowing. Her eyes go on forever.
I look for words but can’t find any. I’m lost in her, “You know don’t you?”
She licks her lips and pulls me close. “Not unless you tell me.” She’s rocking again. And just like high school, everything is electric, but this time carries a charge. This time is not the innocent fumbling of two kids. This time is two adults learning to move on together to the same time.
I pull her hips tight against me. “I will probably have to move. All the good schools are elsewhere.”
She leans back into my shoulder, resting her head in my neck. I feel the breath of her words, “I’ll follow wherever you lead.”
We continue our dance, moving forward together.
