[My friend told me about the seven point of contact in ballroom dancing and this practically wrote itself]
I should never have started watching Strictly Come
Dancing. I was in a university convention hall with a bunch of students almost
a decade younger than me and my wing girl had stood me up. I wiped my sweaty
palms on my jeans in what I hoped was an unobtrusive way.
The leaders of the event had performed a
demonstration of how we were supposed to start and were busily lining participants
up into pairs. I had completely missed whatever they had said, too busy
fretting about the possibility of dancing with a stranger, and as such, I was
the odd one out.
I was about to make my excuses and leave when a
gentle hand took hold of my elbow. “I’ll take this one,” said a soft voice from
behind my shoulder, and the female instructor glided around to stand in front
of me, her arm sliding from my waist up my side to come to rest on my back. “Why
don’t you take this part of the class, Manny?” she asked her male counterpart
in a tone that made it clear she wasn’t really asking.
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