Chapter 10: Woody and Crystal

Oddly, it was Woody who took charge now. He was thinking about dancing, which was his strong suit. And, now that she was willing to talk, he felt better about being more aggressive. He took her to the sweeping driveway, where two cabs were parked under the awning at the front entrance of the conference center. Both drivers were napping, their windows down in the evening heat.

Woody woke the younger one up.

"Any place in town that has more than one dancing style?" he asked.

"Yeah," said the man, rubbing his eyes. "The Prestige Club plays a pretty good mix."

"I suppose it would be too much to ask if they ever have ballroom dancing," said Woody.

"Willy No Chin is the band leader," said the cabby. "He brags that his band can play anything ever written."

"Willy No Chin?" asked Woody, grinning.

"Don't let his name fool you. He's good. He just doesn't have much chin, that's all."

"I want to wine and dine this lady too," said Woody, winking.

"Know just the place," said the cabby. "My name's John."

"Well, John, whisk us away from here to some good food, and I'll call you to pick us up and take us to the club."

"You got it, man," said John, starting the cab.

"I'm not dressed for this," said Crystal.

"You're gorgeous, and I have the hots for you," said Woody, opening the door and bowing. "That's all that matters."

"Don't push it, buster," said Crystal, folding herself into the back seat of the cab. "Remember... talk first... dancing maybe."

"I have complete confidence in my ability to sweep you off your feet," said Woody, grinning. "And, once I have you back on your feet, and on the dance floor, you'll never want to stop."

"I am not a dancer, Woody," she grumbled.

"You will be, my sweet," he said, closing the door. "You will be."

Dinner, for Crystal, was a dichotomy. It was somewhat of a letdown, in the sense that, while they talked about all kinds of things, none of them were anything more than casual conversation. He talked about where he grew up, and asked her questions about places she had been, and things she had seen, jobs she'd had and movies she liked. It was somewhat of a rush for her too, because, at one point, she realized he'd gotten more stories of her own history out of her than she had ever told anyone else, including her ex-husband. Gone was his brash assumption that anything at all would happen between them. It was obvious he just loved to talk and learn about the person he was with.

He wasn't shy about telling things about himself either. He shared a story of hijinks he and his High School buddies had done, and the trouble they'd gotten into over them, and then talked about working in a homeless shelter one summer, just to try to find out what that was all about. He was dead serious one minute, and the next he was telling a story about trying to make his mother believe he was really trying to learn the clarinet when all he could play were two songs.

Crystal watched him eat, and noticed little things about him. He actually used his napkin, instead of leaving it on his lap the entire meal. He passed her things when all she did was glance at them, almost as if he were reading her mind. As much as he talked, he never did it with his mouth full, yet seemed to keep perfect pace with her, so that they finished their meal at the same time. She wondered, for a while, if she were being played, by a master player. She could almost taste the charisma wafting around him. He'd read everything, seen everything, and seemed to know almost everything.

She also noticed that, throughout the entire meal, he never once looked at her breasts. He also never flirted with her once.

"You know I'm probably ten years older than you," she said suddenly.

"Maybe." He took a drink of his iced tea. He didn't seem to care how young or old she was. He wadded up his napkin and put it on his plate, a sign for whoever cleaned the table that he had enjoyed his meal. "We talked," he said, leaning back. "Now... how about that dance?"

"I don't know any dances," said Crystal, feeling like a young girl. "When you're all arms and legs, dancing isn't one of your favorite sports."

"I saw you get into the hot tub last night," he said. "You move like a dancer. I bet you're very limber."

"That's something I've worked on all my life," she admitted. "It helps with joint issues. I can hook both ankles behind my head."

Something flashed in his eyes, and he made a little smile on his face. She had the sudden image of how he must be thinking about that little trick... what she'd look like with her ankles behind her head... naked, of course. She felt a little disappointment as he opened his mouth. She fully expected him to say how much he'd like to see her do that. She was almost shocked when, instead, he said something completely different.

"Flexibility is the key to dancing," he said. "Learning the steps is the easy part. Learning how to use your body... how to transition movement from one part of your body to another, to create a seamless flow of motion... that's the hard part. You're used to feeling your muscles as you stretch. If you've been at it all your life, you probably stretch individual muscles in a sequence. Am I right?"

"Yes," she nodded, amazed that he could know that.

"Dancing is just using various muscles in sequence," he said. "You'll catch on easily. I promise."

"I'm not graceful," she objected.

"You're very graceful," he countered. "I've seen you walk. I've seen you stoop to pick up a pen you dropped. I've seen you step over the side of a hot tub like it was a kiddy pool. You are a study of controlled motion."

"You're trying to seduce me again." She smiled, and this time it was a real smile.

"That's true," he said. "But that's not why I said that. I meant that. You have what it takes to learn to dance. We're not talking the Rockettes, here, just some Friday night fun. What you're really worried about is that you'll be the tallest person on the floor."

"Well?" She folded her arms across her chest. "Won't I be?"

"Who cares?" he said. "I probably won't even know. I won't be looking at anybody else. You're my date. I'm honor bound to pay attention to you."

"This is not a date," said Crystal firmly.

"I guess that means we're going Dutch, huh?" he said, as if he didn't care whether she called it a date or not. "But you owe me a dance, if only because I have the hots for you."

"Why would you having the hots for me require that I dance with you?" she asked, feeling unaccountably happy that he'd gone back to flirting with her.

"It's a rule in the official relationship handbook, printed by Harper and Rowe, copyright 1957," he said smoothly. "Rule number seventy-three, on page thirty-five, if you want me to be specific."

He said it so seriously that she had to laugh.

"OK, one dance," she said.

"I get to TEACH you one dance," he amended. "That may require that we dance three or four times, but it's really the same thing."

"Of course it is," she said, trying to be serious, but failing and grinning. "I can't wait to see how you make up rules about when I have to kiss you, and what THAT involves."

"Oh, we're not even close to that part of the rule book," he said, waving a hand. "I wouldn't worry about that, if I were you. You can trust me implicitly, anyway. I never bend the rules, or use them to my advantage. Your virginity is perfectly safe with me."

She laughed out loud then, and finally got a grin from him.

"OK, Cassanova," she laughed. "Teach me to dance."

Two hours later Crystal sat down limply. She was sweating profusely, and felt like she'd been in the gym the whole time. Somehow, he managed to move her from the first dance he taught her, into one that used some of the same upper body moves, but did something completely different with the feet and hips.

But what kept her there... what kept her from saying it was time to go... that she had fulfilled her part of the bargain... was watching HIM dance.

He had the fluid grace of a professional dancer. His feet seemed to float half an inch above the floor, and his body moved in ways she was able to do, but only with intense concentration. Yet, when he did it, his body flowed and bent as if it were controlled by some immense computer. Half the time he danced with his eyes closed, and yet it made no difference. He never ran into anybody else and he circled her like smoke, always near her, brushing her elbow with his fingertips, or stroking her hips with a quick touch. It seemed as though he never danced the same way twice, except for when he was teaching her basic movements.