When I was little I went on a cruise with my parents. There was a restaurant made of blue and taupe booths to the left, tables for adults to the right; piano and piano man in a navy suit; dance floor bordered by potted plants.
All in the same place.
I thought it was yucky how adults liked to be close; they touched hands over the table and legs under booths and on the dance floor they held each other around smalls of backs or necks. My parents shot nasty looks across the table. I mimicked them. I stared at dresses, men, and the chicken breast on my plate. The healthy choice.
At homecoming 2016 I slow danced with a gay boy named Alex who went around telling everyone I asked him out. I didn’t like Alex like that. I also knew he was gay. I didn’t want to be a cover up so I denied the rumors he spread vehemently. But Alex was objectively prettier than me, and people tend to believe the better looking one. At homecoming the next year I watched the boy I had an unwavering crush on slow dance with Suzy. She drunkenly held onto him, her makeup smudged. I didn’t know the only reason he let her hold him was because she’d just blown him in the gym locker room.
I didn’t want to kiss, I wanted to retire my nasty looks and be held.
In the same year, I got with a guy who I didn’t like much but who I weirdly remember slow dancing with. I don’t think it really happened, I think it must have been a dream from the summer after we stopped talking. Either way, it happened in some past capacity.
I planned to be taken out for dinner and dancing someday, accompanied by the right dance partner, after I realized I never really liked any of the boys who I could have sworn I’d not get over even after I turned eighteen. I’ve got three very nice dresses, all waiting to be worn, held, touched. I slow danced in a faded black tank top and jeans with my best friend, recently dubbed Big. We danced again last Christmas in slightly nicer clothes. He is the right dance partner, at least that’s what I think.
I looked on Reddit to see if there was anywhere to get a shitty Italian dish like my parents did on the cruise. From what I remember, where there is bad Italian food, there is a dance floor waiting to be used.
To fulfill my fantasy (scratch the itch), I want to be taken out on that floor to embarrass myself and feel my chest expand like it did the two other times. I will wear my prettiest dress and let you unzip me at the end of the night, as long as you’ll stay for breakfast tomorrow. Take me out for dinner and dancing, you’ll love to hold me close and it will be good to remember what it’s like to never want to let go.
But, despair: There is literally nofuckingwhere to go.
