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splinterswerve
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
splinterswerve.hotmail.com

by Kimberlee Feick Lowry

It's murky and loud in here. Crowded, too, but we push ourselves into the bar - shouts of laughter, glimpses of deep cleavage, slick hair, palpable longing - and I get a glimpse of the dance floor below.

The music rushes out to kiss me like an enthusiastic friend, and Ernesto looks back to catch me grinning.  He squeezes my hand, which he's held since we got out of the cab, and guides me down the stairs into the happy crush of dancers.

And, oh, they're beautiful, everyone is so -
   - black hair swirls and hips flow like water, hands admire the bodies that spill beneath them, turning, spinning, grinding, moving - always moving - white smiles flash, dark eyes shine.       

So, of course, I hesitate.  I'm not beautiful or graceful. My hair is short and my hips are solid, like clay.  An image blurs the grin I'm wearing: the first time I saw this dance in Ernesto's living room, last year. The day's heat had made our lime drinks and upper lips sweat, even with the balcony doors spread wide. A similar crush of bodies,  the same music,  and the beautiful flow of movement in one corner of the room. Ernesto in bare feet, his light shirt flung open, eyes half-closed as he spun and whirled with the woman in his arms, effortlessly, as though they had danced this way together every day of their lives. Her hair swung out in a black wave, her body moved sinuously, a watersnake twining around her partner.         

Ernesto's hand, feeling resistance, turns gently in mine. He comes back to me, his face close and brushes my ear with his lips, a soft reassurance.        

I let him draw me into the beat that splashes in our ears, a surf of music pounding against my chest and the floor with equal force.  It travels up my toes, curls around my ankles, strokes my thighs as Ernesto begins to move, my hands hot in his, our bodies close, a breath apart, eyes locked. My feet dart in and out instinctively, stop short and twirl without anything to guide them, save the touch of Ernesto's palms and fingertips at my waist, my bare back, and occasionally, my bottom.        

Everything around me is a spin of laughing colour,  of flowing ebony hair, of sweat-dampened, coffee-coloured chests seen through open shirts, of tiny mango and teal skirts with scalloped edges that ripple and flip and expose smooth flesh whenever  the body underneath twirls.        

But mostly I think of Ernesto's eyes, warmly green, like seaweed under shallow water, like olives. He is singing wordlessly to me as we dance, jumbled syllables that tumble out of his smiling mouth, his hips and breath brushing against me just long enough to remind me of what we've yet to share -  like flint striking a brief, bright spark.         

The song ends, but we don't step apart, just radiate our silent delight in everything during the tiny space that exists before the music pours down again. I can barely contain my delight in myself, for conquering my heritage and remembering the steps, for not crushing Ernesto's toes, for not bashing into the other couples, or losing my balance on the slippery floor.          

And as the walls begin to whirl again, the velvety bar decor melts to reveal cheerful yellow paint. Latin rhythms become underscored by the watery chug of the dishwasher and my nose is flicked by the earthy smell that emanates from the fridge. But I am dancing beyond the confines of my kitchen, away from the dog's puzzled stare. I am in Ernesto's arms, among people who dance as easily as they breathe, and my hips work, my feet understand, my blonde hair swirls and my blue eyes glow.