The music was slowing, the song was almost over, but we couldn’t stop dancing. And what a brilliant dancer he was! This was our first dance together and we clicked immediately.
Then came a second song! A second dance! Had heaven happened all at once? And then a third. And a fourth. If Vera Lynn was about she would have sung about a nightingale in Berkeley Square. If David Bowie was there he would have performed his entire Let’s Dance album. My heart was on fire!
Eventually we stopped dancing and he asked if I would like lemonade or something. So we sat on chairs at the side of the dance floor and enjoyed lemonade. The next thing this woman came up and said, “Okay dear, we’d better get going. We’ve only got the baby-sitter until 10.30.”
Well, that’s a party stopper.
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Party poopers.
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Ooops! And where was the wife all this time? Bet she didn’t like to dance. Always check for the wedding ring!
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He possibly was waving his wedding ring arm around too fast when he danced!
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I’d say that was the perfect roadmap to replace the babysitter and eventually the wife. But that is robbing the effect of your story that seeks to surprise through a tepid twist to a piping hot plot.
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I suspect there might be matrimonial trouble down the line!
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OH! Ouchie!
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Ouchie!
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It’s just as well. He’s probably a pretty boring guy to have married a woman who doesn’t dance.
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I can’t dance!
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I was making the assumption that she just chose not to dance, not that she couldn’t. That might change things.
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