Japan

Before I even knew it, I was dancing with Sara from Japan. Talia was that good. She had coached me on what to do, and as we swayed in time, I rehearsed my script. Small talk, keep it light. Keep close, but not too close. Let her know that you're interested, but don't be a creep. Then, when she starts to lean in to you, kiss her, gently, and let her come to you. Then, when you've got it going hot and heavy, ask her back to the hotel.

A mixture of lust and nerves filled my gut. The lust, I knew, was from the girls I still wished I was dancing with, my friends. Why had I agreed to this?

The first thing that I noticed about Sara was her dress. The silken, floral fabric looked like a page out of the 1950s. The bodice was tight, emphasizing rather than obscuring her slim, flat chest. At the waist, the dress flared dramatically. It was an outdated silhouette, but it complemented her perfectly. The bodice stopped just above her bust, baring her alabaster skin, slender, elegant arms, frail collarbones, and sharp shoulder blades. Long white gloves enclosed her fingers and forearms, and her pearl earrings matched her necklace. The whole outfit said money. I wondered if the band holding her lacquer-black bob in place was real jade.

In stature, she was as small as Rachel, and bore an equally willful expression as a default. Her narrow, plush lips were fixed in a pout, and her sharp, dark eyes maintained an inscrutable expression. I had no idea what she might be thinking, or why she had agreed to the indignity of dancing with me. I started nervously counting the freckles on her cheeks. Oh, right. Small talk.

"I love your dress."

"Thank you. It was ordered specially for me by my father. I told him, 'Audrey Hepburn in "Sabrina".' He found the right tailor."

Talia was right. There was no trace of accent, but occasional sounds had an odd tone to them, like she was approaching the correct sound different than I would. That gave her voice an otherworldly sense that held my attention on every syllable.

"It complements you nicely. Have you been to a dance before?" The question slipped out before I remembered ballet. Stupid.

"Not of this sort." A polite answer. She's kind. "I very much enjoy ballet. Have you ever seen ballet?"

"I must confess, I haven't. I always meant to." An innocent lie.

"You should!" Her voice betrayed genuine enthusiasm, her eyes widened. "Ballet is most beautiful expression of human art. Poetry in motion! Observe."

She pushed me back, and twilled effortlessly on one toe, arms extended swan-like above her head, her free leg perched daintily on her knee. Her skirt spun to fullness. She stopped on one leg as suddenly as she had started, and slowly bent one arm gracefully to the ground. Her free leg straightened behind her head, and then she slowly brought into a vertical split, a perfect 180°. Several people clapped.

She released the position and took my hands again. The music picked up, and she asked, "do you know how to swing? It is simple. I will teach."

Before the end of three minutes and five, she had me twirling her like a professional. I'd never had so much fun dancing this innocently. I was starting to sweat in my tux, but she just flushed a little around her adorable freckles.

"I'm having so much fun. You're an excellent teacher."

"You make a fine student." Her dark eyes held mine, and I became suddenly aware of the heat between us, her pouty lips, and the sheen of her dark hair. I pulled her closer, giving in to instinct, and kissed her.