The community center dance class was exactly the kind of thing William had sworn he’d never do. Line dancing. At sixty-two. But his doctor had recommended exercise, his daughter had bought him the classes. She was the instructor. Margaret, though everyone called her Maggie. She was sixty-five, with compact strength. You’re thinking too much, she said, appearing at his elbow. Dancing isn’t about getting it right. It’s about feeling the music. Then let me help you feel. She positioned herself behind him, her hands finding his waist. Close your eyes. Forget the steps. Just move. William closed his eyes. Felt Maggie’s hands on his waist, guiding him, her body pressed lightly against his back. The music was country-western, not his taste, but her hands were warm. Class is over, she announced. The other students filtered out. William stayed. You felt that, she said. Felt what? Your breathing changed. When I touched your waist. It got faster. Shallower. Do you know what that means? William’s mouth was dry. It means I’m out of shape. It means you’re aroused. Her hands pressed slightly, pulling him back. And do you know what it means when your breathing changes? It means you want more. It also means I’m aroused. My breathing changed too. I have an office. Through that door. It locks. They didn’t speak as they moved. Touch my waist, she said. And watch what happens. He did. Placed his hands where hers had been. Watched her face as her breathing changed. It means, she whispered, that we’re both human. That we both want. Sometimes the simplest signal is the truest. Sometimes a change in breathing says everything.
