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- 03/04/2016
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Only Prompts - 2. The Last Waltz - Prompt 481
You bought a ticket from the local fire department for a fund raiser. One of the prizes was dance lessons from the local dance class. You find yourself in class paired with the stunning teacher. What happens at your dance lessons?
The Last Waltz
“Hello, sir? Excuse me!”
I’d started to walk faster toward the store entrance, but it seems there was no escaping him. Plus to be honest he was very cute so I stopped, and turned to face him. He walked toward me, dressed in a gray form fitting t-shirt that left nothing to the imagination, and his fireman’s fire-suit pants with suspenders. He had abs like Fergal Devitt!
“Thank you, sir. Can I interest you in some raffle tickets? We are raising money for the Firemen’s Benevolent Fund. They are two dollars each, three for five, and eight for ten.”
I wanted to ask if he was the prize, but thought better of it. “Well sure okay, that’s a good cause, I’ll take three please.”
My lovely sandy-haired fireman pulled off three tickets and I scrawled my information onto them. I paid him the $5.00, and shoved the tickets into my wallet. Honestly, I’d have taken him for the afternoon as my preferred prize; instead I smiled at him and said thank you.
“Oh no, thank you sir. I appreciate your generosity.”
I said goodbye and walked on into the grocery store to pick up the bits and pieces I needed.
A month later I received a letter from the Fire Department saying thank you for your participation, and while you did not win first prize you did receive third. When I looked at the prize list, well, you could have knocked me over with a brick: I’d won dance lessons.
“Dance lessons!” I said to Pierre my best friend, over our regular Saturday morning coffee. “What the heck do I want with dance lessons?”
Pierre cocked his head and laughed. “Well if I were you—after Peter and Jon’s wedding—I’d take them.”
He was laughing at me.
“Oh, har-de-har-har! I’m not that bad a dancer.”
“Oh you are Danny, you are.” Pierre sipped his coffee then put it down, and wiped his mustache with a paper napkin. “You’d have more fun at those events if you could dance properly.”
“Who would you laugh at then, Pierre? Hmmm?”
After coffee I walked back home thinking about the dance lessons. Pierre could be right, much as I hated to admit it. But I did feel conspicuous and uncomfortable dancing in public. Oh well, hell, okay I decided to give them a call when I got home.
Once inside I pulled out the bumpf[1] they’d sent me about the lessons. I was entitled to three free lessons however they could be with mixed sexes or men or women only. Well I thought men only—mother always said, stick to what you know!
I picked up the phone and dialed the number— feeling nervous for some silly reason.
“Gooood afternoon, Crabtree’s Dance Studio. We can fix your two left feet!”
Oh boy.
“Hello, good afternoon. I have in my possession a ticket that provides me with three free lessons?” Oh my god, I was squeaking!
“Oh yes, from the Firemen’s Benevolent Fundraiser?” A female voice inquired.
"Yes, that’s right.”
“Oh, this is wonderful— no one usually collects that prize. Can I just have your name please?”
“My name is Daniel Crawley.” I didn’t question why no one collected this prize.
“Yes, I’ve got your name on my list. So when would you prefer to come, evenings or weekends?”
“On Saturday, is that possible?”
“Yes the free lessons start at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday, is that good for you?”
At 9:00 a.m.? NO that’s not good for me! Oh, stop whinging!
“That’s terrific. Early Saturday mornings are my favourite time.”
“Okay, then Mr. Crawley, so do you prefer, men only, or mixed lessons?”
“I’d prefer men only, thank you.”
“Certainly. Okay you are booked, and your teacher will be Stefan. So we’ll see you at 9:00 a.m. this Saturday. Go to Studio C. Please wear leather soled shoes that don’t squeak and especially no running shoes or sandals.”
“Okay, got it. Thank you very much.”
I hung up the phone, and asked myself what in the world I was doing?
The alarm rang at 7:45 a.m. on Saturday and I wanted to pick up the clock and fling it, but decided not to. I hauled myself out of my lonely, yet warm bed and got into the shower. As I washed, shaved and, well whatever else I did is none of your business, I wondered what my instructor would be like. Stefan—tall, dark and handsome—I sure hoped so.
I dressed in comfy clothes and wore a pair of leather soled oxfords, which were nicely broken in. It was already warm out and I hopped into the car and drove over to Crabtree’s.
I was still quite early so I pulled into Dimfy Donuts, and ordered a coffee and a cherry cruller, from the drive-thru. Now normally I don’t eat donuts but I thought I’d be getting enough exercise, so that my future husband wouldn’t find this meal on my hips!
So, now revved up on plenty of carbs, sugar and for good measure, caffeine, I presented myself at 8:55 a.m. at Crabtree’s Dance Studio C.
There was no one around so I went into the room. On the floor were those painted footsteps and so I followed them, just for the hell of it. I was in the middle of doing my favourite Alex Da Silva impression when the lights went on, and I slipped during a perfect turn and nearly fell.
“Just what do you think you are doing?”
I turned around and saw the most stunning man I’ve ever seen in my life. He was six feet tall, white-blonde hair, striking cornflower blue eyes, slim; he was just perfection. All that perfection was encased in a beautifully tailored black suit.
“I … um ….” I stammered and felt all of three years old. “Sorry, I’m here for the class.”
Mr. Wonderful sighed haughtily. “You are Mr. Crawley?”
“Yes, that’s me.” I wished the floor would open up.
He walked – nay – floated over to the stereo system and prepped a few things, and then spoke again. “I am Stefan von Grimmelshausen, your instructor.”
I moved forward to shake hands, but he waved me away. “Please, we will begin with a simple waltz.”
Again his feet didn’t seem to touch as he glided to the centre of the dance floor. There he stood, arms out, and stared at me. “Well?”
“Well, what?” I looked around but saw only myself.
“Come to me Mr. Crawley. You are here to learn to dance are you not?” Stefan sounded a little exasperated.
“Right. Yes.” I walked to him, he took my hands, held one, and put the other on his waist. Oh my, he smells like a fresh dewy morning.
I think I pressed my body against his, which he didn’t seem to enjoy because he tutted at me and said, “No touching!”
“Sorry.”
He clicked his tiny remote and the music started. Stefan patiently showed me the steps, 1-2-3-4, over and over. And I tried I really did, but I tripped over my feet and stepped on his. Finally, as he was probably wishing he’d worn steel toed boots, Stefan threw up his hands. He told me I was a klutz and to get out until next week.
The second week was slightly better. At least Stefan didn’t yell at me and I was kind of successful with the waltz. We moved on to salsa—not a great idea. Stefan kept saying, soft knees, quiet top and busy hips; I kept doing busy knees, quiet hips and soft top or something like that. Again at the end, I left behind a furious and frustrated Stefan.
After my third and final lesson, I thanked Stefan for his patience. He smiled and said that graduation was the following week; he hoped that I would come and perform the waltz with him. I was able to dance that fairly well. And like an idiot I agreed.
When I arrived at Crabtree’s the following Saturday afternoon, the place was jam packed, and my heart sank. I watched beautifully performed dances, and lovely couples for an hour before my turn came. I walked out to the floor with Stefan, he took me in his arms and we began, then I stepped on his toes, more than once and then tripped him.
After he recovered from my last drubbing of his feet, Stefan stopped our dance, dropped my hand, pulled himself up straight, and tugged down his jacket. He glared at me and swore in German. It was a short tirade ending in one word I recognized: ‘klutz’.
Stefan then turned on the heel of his sound foot and limped away.
It was decided, after a short recess to continue the graduation dance; however I was without a partner.
I was about to bow out when someone took my hand and said, “I’ll be your partner.”
Looking up I was met with lovely gray eyes, sandy hair and a sweet smile—it was my fireman to the rescue—I shook my head no but he said, “Just get close and relax. Just follow me.”
And I did, and we did—it was a miracle.
Afterward, Joe and I talked for a little while, and I asked him jokingly, “What are you doing for the rest of your life?”
Guess what he said, go on.
Okay, I’ll tell you.
He said, “Dancing the waltz with you.”
[1] Useless printed instructions and manuals.
Originated in England during World War II when English soldiers were overwhelmed with unnecessary printed materials and used them as they would toilet tissue or "bum fodder".
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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