I’m just not feeling it.
My man is though, in a big way. It’s Friday night for him. He has the next five days off and is heading back east to visit his mother.
I don't know how he does it, but the next thing I know I’m bundled up and bicycling beside him in the rain towards the Ten Depot Street Restaurant and Bar.
We snag a table close to the dance floor and it fills quickly with friends. A new act is on stage tonight, two guitar players who are warming up the crowd with songs by Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings and Pure Prairie League. When the musicians start to play the song, Simple Kind of Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd, I look across the table at my man.
“Such a pretty song,” I say. He extends his hand, an invitation.
On the dance floor, he pulls my body to his. The lyrics, a mother’s advice to her son to live a simple life, are poignant given his upcoming trip and our recent attempts to simplify our life which ironically have only made it more complicated and stressful. We've both been feeling beaten down and weakened by it all.
My forehead rests on his shoulder, his chins tucks up next to my ear and in an instant nothing else exists but the music and the warmth of the breath between us.
I find the rhythm, give it to him and then do my best to surrender to his fearless lead, our approach to dance synonymous with our approach to marriage. As we spin and flow, I feed him the funny names of the dance moves we’ve made up over the years to jog his memory.
“Ragdoll.” I lift my arms overhead as his hands float down, encompassing my ribcage I let my body sway like a bag of bones as he gently pushes me from side to side.
“Waterfall.” As I arch backwards, one of his hand flows to my waist, encouraging me into a backbend until my head nearly hits the dance floor. His other hand moves to my throat and slowly, seductively, flows like water down the front of my body before he pulls me back up to him.
“Seattle.” I feel his smile as he keeps me close and we go into a Fred and Ginger stance, our feet moving together intuitively in our outside-the-box step, a technique that morphed into our routine after a steamy night at the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival.
He pulls out a few more of our standards, The Dana, named after the guy who taught it to us and The Kibler which we made up at the wedding of our friend Dan Kibler.
As the song winds down, he spins me, twice, my favorite. His lips brush mine as he lowers me into a dip as the last note is played.
The sound of applause and the roomful of people creating it startle us both.
“Whoa, we went somewhere,” I say as I lead the way back to our table.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he says, landing a light spank on my ass.
As we reclaim our chairs, our friend Peter shakes his head and smiles.
“You guys, wow, that was really something,” he says. “That was so…sexy.”
I start clapping even though everyone else has quit.
Where do you go, what do you do, to tap back into sexy?