John A. Ward
After the night club closed, they met in the back of the all-night super market.  It was deserted in the poultry section.  The chill from the refrigerated cases was a relief from the sultry summer heat that caused even the lightest fabric to cling to their skin.  

"Would you like to dance?" he asked her hours before.

"I don't know how," she said.  "Teach me."

"Just follow, if I'm any good it will be natural for you.  It's something acquired by doing."

"Not here, I know a place where we can be alone after the club closes."

Now, while others purchased wine and six-packs for after hours in one-night cheap motels, they faced each other across the vinyl-tiled floor.

She came to him.

He swayed, left, right, positioning her balance for the start.

She joined her body to his.

There, among the breasts and thighs in their transparent wraps, they did their first slow waltz together.

First published: August, 2011
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