The Difference in Our Step

Step, step, step

The dance we have across the floor.

I hold his hand.

He holds mine.

I feel the coldness of his flesh

against my palm.

His hand on my waist

is firm.

I feel my eyes meet his, face hot

and he smiles.

In that playful, almost teasing way

- it makes me want to push away -

but I know he doesn’t mean it.

Not in the way I’m assuming

I hope, at least.

I look away and he draws me closer.

We spin across the floor -

The music is distant.

Some street vendor,

in the night outside our window.

We dance in the dark -

So they can’t see me.

Us.

So they can’t see that he is leading -

That he is in charge of this dance

That I am struggling to remember

how I should step.

That I am a man

dancing as a woman would dance.

I don’t want them to see.

The soft strains of the singing

can still reach us here.

Even though I am trying

to avoid all the attention.

Other than his.

He is the only one

who can see this.

He is the only one -

who I want to see this.

He’s patient.

I feel my heart in my chest

skip a beat at every missed

step

or every missed

t

u

r

n

But he doesn’t seem to notice.

I close my eyes -

for a bit, if nothing else.

And I let him

lead me along.

It’s a trust

that I’m only now

feeling my heart

allow.

My grip … softens

… in his.

And his fingers

more firmly

wrap

around mine.

He pulls me

       along.

And smiling.

  I find myself

He

feels

right.

…

..

.

The music

     begins

         to fade.

Our steps slow.

My breath quickens.

He pulls me closer.

And rests his head on my shoulder.

I stop.

He stops.

We stand there.

And listen.