and dusty at the hem, and my underarms are slick with perspiration. On my feet again, I wipe my forehead with the back of my arm. Josef sweeps methodically, head down, broom bristles scraping the floor.
“I think that’s the last of it,” I say. “Do you think we try to save this towel with the fragments, or can we just throw the whole thing away? Josef?”
He stops sweeping and raises his eyes to mine. “You look beautiful in your dress.”
I startle. “You don’t have to say it now.”
“You were beautiful in your dress at the wedding, and sweeping up broken dishes in your apron you’re even more beautiful. You have to know that.”
He extends his hand, and my face flushes until I realize he’s beckoning not for my hand but for the glass-filled towel, tossing it in the trash bin. “We’ll throw it away.”
“Josef.”
“I’ll finish the rest of the cleanup on my own.” He plunges his hands back into the soapy water.
“No.”
“It’s fine.”
“No,” I say, making a decision. “Let’s go dance.” He starts to protest again, but I’m already untying my apron. “Enough, Josef. Enough.”
I’m saying enough with washing the dishes, but I’m also saying enough with your pulling back. Enough with your deciding when we’re done talking and when you want to tell me you prefer to keep to yourself and when you want to tell me I’m beautiful. Enough with that. I won’t put up with it anymore. I hold out my hand, firmly. “This is your last chance to come and dance. If I put my hand down, I’m not asking again. Ever. I’m not asking anything of you ever again.”
He has to think about it; I see him calculating the price of either move. Only when I’ve let my hand drop a centimeter does he take his from the sink, soapy and dripping, and accept my outstretched palm.
The water trickles from his hand down onto my own knuckles, past my wrist, but I don’t think it’s the drip that makes me shiver.
Back in the main room, the musicians have put away their instruments, and someone’s turned on a phonograph instead. It’s not traditional wedding music anymore, but band music, bright and bubbly with the sound of brass horns. I don’t know how to dance to it, but neither, it seems, do a lot of people. Two of the Canadian workers are giving a demonstration in the middle of the room, and then others clumsily follow their lead as best they can. Josef looks relieved; he’ll be far from the only beginner on this dance floor.
He puts one arm around my waist as the Canadians are doing. It makes my skin jolt, but it’s also awkward, trying to figure out how our bodies should fit together amid a sea of people while music blasts in the background. Josef, it becomes clear after a few minutes of dancing, has terrible rhythm. The steps are simple, but he can’t seem to start on the right beat. I’m trying not to laugh at him, but then I can’t help it. And instead of being annoyed, he’s laughing, too, throwing his hands in the air and exaggerating every clumsy step.
Is this what a date would be like? Is this what it would have been like if I’d met Josef at school or a social club? Is this what it could still be like if we could have a relationship that wasn’t colored by my pain or his?
“Come over here.” I pull him to the corner of the room, behind a rack where people have hung jackets, where we won’t bother anyone else. “Watch my feet,” I say. “The third and fourth steps are quicker. It goes slow, slow, quick-quick.”
He nods his head down to watch my feet, and then I nod my head down to offer more guidance, and then our foreheads bump together.
And suddenly we are kissing.
AS SOON AS OUR LIPS MEET, MY HEART JOLTS; MY HEAD FEELS dizzy.
And then Josef abruptly pulls his head back. For a moment I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake. Does he not want this? But then I feel his heartbeat, heavy against my chest, and realize it’s just that he felt the jolt, too, and we’re both overwhelmed. When he leans in again, it’s with intention. He cups his hands behind my head and strokes my cheek with his thumb, and I lean forward. Our lips meet more softly this time, less clumsily, and so slowly time has stopped.