Beggar of Love by Lee Lynch Page B

the rights would be really expensive.”
    “Ginger, listen,” she said, putting her hand on Ginger’s arm. “I wasn’t talking about that kind of dancing.” Abba came on, singing “Take a Chance on Me.”
    “Do you want to dance, now, with me? Here? For the fun of it?” She gulped down a big swallow of her Irish whiskey, all of a sudden more nervous than she could ever remember. It was as if her whole future depended on Ginger’s answer.
    Ginger looked at the people on the dance floor, possibly seeing grown women dancing together for the first time in her life. She studied Jefferson, her face beyond serious. “I’m not gay.”
    “That doesn’t matter. I want to dance,” she pleaded.
    “Sure. Why not?” She reached for Jefferson’s hand. “Hurry, before the song ends.”
    Jefferson considered herself not a bad dancer, but Ginger was terrific. Forty-five minutes later, they had danced to Eric Clapton’s “Lay Down Sally,” Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are,” and Yvonne Elliman’s “If I Can’t Have You,” among others. Jefferson, ebullient, wanted to go on forever, but Ginger looked at the clock and said she had to leave.
    “That’s set fifteen minutes fast, to get us out of here at closing.”
    Ginger shook her head and started toward the table, but Peter Frampton started singing “Baby, I Love Your Way.”
    “This is your song.” Jefferson caught Ginger’s hand. “I’ll deliver you to school in a cab. Stay for one more song.”
    “A cab? All the way to the dorm? Are you insane?”
    “Yeah,” Jefferson answered, dancing to Ginger.
    “I’ve never danced slow with a woman before tonight,” Ginger said, her body taut, but following.
    “And I’ve never danced slow with anyone as beautiful as you before.”
    “If you were a guy I’d think that was a line.”
    Jefferson smiled. “Ah, but it is. Are you going to have your brothers beat me up?”
    Ginger let loose with an unexpected sun-ray smile. “Maybe beat you at handball.”
    “I’ll get Lily Ann Lee for doubles.”
    “I know Lily Ann.”
    “See? We have friends in common already.”
    Ginger slowly shook her head, smiling. Jefferson did something a little faster with her feet and Ginger followed step for step. This match began to feel like a dream to Jefferson.
    “Would we be as good together in bed?”
    Ginger brought them to a stop. “What makes you think I’d go to bed with a woman?”
    “Instinct.”
    Ginger was looking into her eyes. They swayed as the song came to an end. Still, their eyes held. Jefferson imagined Ginger’s surprise, her denial, her growing feeling of fascination. Jefferson suspected that Ginger would never have been intimate with a boy—too busy, too disinterested, too naïve to know she was a lesbian.
    When Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain” came on, Ginger stepped into it and Jefferson found herself following. Something about Ginger’s boldness in taking the lead got her juices flowing. A lot of women were watching them. She felt four-footed compared to Ginger, but inside, she was flying. Best, Ginger was dancing with her eyes locked on Jefferson’s. No matter how Ginger turned or dipped or which way she directed her body, those green eyes held hers. She was so high on this girl she forgot to drink.
    What was Ginger thinking? Feeling? Was dancing her way of evading Jefferson’s interest—or of connecting? Maybe she was buying time. After a game of handball, Jefferson sometimes realized she had the answers to whatever she’d been trying to work out.
    What was Ginger’s body feeling? Herself, she was sweating and aware of some muscles she didn’t use playing sports. The restraint, the care she employed to move with Ginger were taking a toll on her. She wasn’t used to that.
    What could she make Ginger’s body feel?
    “Come with me,” she said, fitting her hand around Ginger’s wrist. Ginger looked at the hand, at Jefferson’s eyes.
    “My parents are at our place in New