Very cold morning on the St Clair street car. A very tall 70+ year old man wearing an impressive fur hat passes me his transfer. On it he has written his email and the number for The Dance Hotline.
Me: Oh? Thank you. Uh, what kind of dance?
Him: (in an accent I can't quite place) English.
Me: Oh okay. Thank you. Uh so much.
Silence.
His long grey coat is impeccable; his scarf wrapped around his neck tucked in perfectly flat. My head barely reaches his chest, which is still high and strong. But I don't think I should be looking at that.
So I smile at him real quick and look down and slightly back. My grip on the pole tightens a bit. I am aware of other of the other passengers assessing this transaction. My cheeks are pink. My lungs are tight. For some reason I want to bite my fingernails like I did in grade 2. I resist but it takes strength.
We are at his stop and it's safe to look up again. With a fluid jerk of his wrist he flips his phone open and looks at it intently. "I am off to work now." Then he leans in and looks me straight in the eye, "but I get off at 9." He snaps his phone shut and disembarks all in one motion. The furs on his hat, soldiers jumping to attention, now outside in the winter air.
His exit leaves a big space on the car. I exhale. I fold the transfer once, and place it politely in my left hand pocket. I look back and forth but no one meets my gaze. Hm hm hm. What is the Dance Hotline? What is this English dancing? Hey, what the heck is this sensation warming across my ribs? Wait a minute... Wha? Whoa. Big Daddy, I think that's a move you're making! Ha! Well whaddaya know! And then: I consider... maybe, you know, maybe I will call. Not that this is my scene. Or my age range, tyvm. Or that I am even interested or looking. But the timing! And the cajones! That kind of direct and brave connect oughtta be rewarded, non?
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