Hubs is fantastic on the dance floor. He two-steps and waltzes. And he spins me in such a way that I feel dainty and featherlike. (Ha.)
In fact, we first hooked up at a local dance hall. A honky-tonk, if you will.
It happened in the spring of 2000, when Hubs joined several of us for an evening out. My friends and I had been inviting him to a lot of our gatherings, mainly because I'd developed a huge crush and thought maybe I could get him drunk and cornered.
On the night of the hookup, we danced all night. By evening's end, he had me cornered in his pickup and all was blissful until I accidently leaned on the horn, thereby alerting an entire apartment complex — inhabited by lots of newsroom people — to our makeout session.
The next morning, I got a call from my friend Amy.
"So, is he a good kisser? And don't tell me you don't know because we looked out the window when we heard the horn."
And so it began, a romance that involved lots of dancing and one more semi-public snog, this time in Amy's closet, on the night she hosted a poker game. (I don't recommend closets for such encounters, however, due to the danger of accidental piercings by stray stilettos. In this instance, one fell on Hubs' head. Thankfully, he was not rendered unconsicious. Those who heard the tumbling shoes, however, were highly amused.)
I miss that impulsiveness. I miss dancing.
1 comment:
I miss impulsiveness too.
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