I ask you to dance because we dance so well together, because for that song, for those three minutes, you get me high.
I get high on the flick of your wrist that sends me spinning across the floor back into your arms.
The press of your chest against mine - step, step, step, hold - and the temptation to bury my face against the crook where your shoulder meets your neck - it flies me to the moon.
To infinity and beyond, that is how high I feel when you know the song as well as I, when we hit the breaks in perfect unison and grin with the giddy adrenaline of dancing fools. (I don’t smile when I dance, except with you.)
(and in that moment, I think you feel it too - this connection, this potential for chemistry that doesn’t end with the final chord or when I take my shoes off)
But I hold back, because I don’t want to wreck what we’ve got, this tenuous partnership of travel and teaching and swinging out harder than anyone here.
I don’t want to lose you, because believe it or not I do enjoy your company. (Not just because of dancing. I like the way you nerd out over your fandom, and make smart-ass comments to stupid conversations, and take leadership of situations, and…)
But I ask you to dance because when I dance with you, I find - for a moment - the tingling euphoria of connection to you, to the music, to the dance.