Ballroom: A Novel by Alice Simpson Page B

around the borders of Roseland’s dance floor. When she looks into the shadowy half-light, men stroll back and forth as though they have somewhere to go. Seated on the banquettes, women in their seventies and eighties pose, repeated reflections of one another, eager and inviting, wearing too much makeup. Their wide, soft bosoms push up and over the bugle-beaded bodices of their cocktail dresses, forming deep, crepey cleavage. They have blown-out hair and painted nails, too long for plump hands that bear the weight of too many rings. Each stares straight ahead, waiting for an invitation to dance. They glitter with promise. Sarah feels the envious appraisal of old eyes as she circles, searching for Joseph.
    A man steps out of the shadows. “May I have this dance?” He’s taken hold of her forearm. Sarah feels the strength of the large, liver-spotted hand, and looks up into a crooked smile over equine teeth. Perched above a furrowed forehead is a comical comb-over, beginning an inch from his left ear and swirling around the top of his head in a spiral, which seems almost glued in place. She can hardly take her eyes off it.
    “I’m waiting for a friend.” She steps back. He is too close.
    “While you’re waiting, we can dance.” He persists, stepping closer, his arm around her waist, pushing her toward the dance floor.
    “No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.”
    “He’ll see you dancing, and he’ll be impressed. What’s your name, sweetheart? I never saw you here before.”
    It is rude to walk away, to make a scene. It’s only one dance. Giving in to his persistence, she turns herself over to following his lead. He is a terrible dancer.
    “Sarah,” she says, remembering Tina’s warnings.
    “I’m Walter. Maybe you wanna gowout together sometime?” When he exhales Scotch, she pulls her head back. “How old do ya think I yam?”
    “I’m not good at guessing ages.” Her neck aches.
    “How old do I look? Take a guess, gowan.”
    “I don’t know, fifty-six?” she lies. He is at least seventy.
    “I’m sixty. How old are you? Thirty, I bet.”
    He’s lying, too, she thinks.
    “I never discuss my age,” she says with a laugh. “It’s only a number.”
    Instead of following the flow of the dancers around the dance floor, he leads her in dizzying circles, showing her off like a prize to the straggle of strangers. Everyone is watching. Like a fireball, heat begins to rise from her chest, constricting her breath. Her throat feels parched. It is hard to swallow. She loses the rhythm of the mambo. Each attempt to catch the place where the beat began is fleeting, just out of reach. If she could only concentrate, start again. Why, she wonders, can’t she feel the rhythm?
    Walter’s black-and-white tweed woolen sports jacket smells like a fifty-year-old stew of sweat and mothballs. Its fibers prickle against her skin, itchy and irritating. There are frayed and soiled edges around Walter’s blue polyester shirt collar and cuffs, and stubble on his neck where he’s missed shaving. Her back and neck strain. She keeps trying to lengthen the space between them. Dizzy, nauseated, she wants to walk away, but one must never walk away from a dance partner.
    “What happened? You’re losin’ the beat, Sarah. Come on . . . and a one and two . . .”
    He counts out the mambo beat.
    “That’s it. You got it now, sweetheart.”
    Whenever she faces the entrance, she searches for Joseph’s silhouette, backlit against its brightness. The band plays one Latin song after another. Finally catching Walter off guard, she slips out of his grip and quickly walks away. He reaches to grab her arm.
    “I need to sit.”
    “Come on, sweetheart, one more dance. It won’t kill you.”
    Another mambo, and her head is throbbing from the heat and the repetitious rhythms.
    “I really think I need to rest a while.”
    He won’t let go. “Ah, come on. Just till it finishes. Your boyfriend will wait. You’re real good,