I bowed to her as the first soft notes of the music began, then her hand was in mine and my arm around her waist.

“You had to pick one with tempo changes,” I said to hide my nervousness. Few couples were dancing; most were watching. I didn’t see Alex and Cordelia.

“At least you’re the right height for this,” Emma commented. “I’ve danced with so few women I could look up to.”

“Better worry about my weight,” I added, hoping I wouldn’t land on her toes.

Somehow, somewhere, I found the steps, the gentle rhythm of the music. Emma was the perfect partner, of course, guiding me, slowing if I got off the tempo.

Torbin is a very good teacher, I thought as my body seemed to know where to go, a whirl that became a pleasant blur, a power and command over my movement, meshing perfectly with the music and my partner.

“You fooled me in the hallway,” Emma said. “You really are quite good.”

“No, the hallway was the truth,” I replied, “this is the illusion.” But it was real, a magic moment, repeated smooth steps that shouldn’t be, but were.

“Is it premature to ask you to do this again next year?” she inquired.

I laughed, caught happily by her confidence in me and the lift of the music.

“Better wait until this is over. I might trip yet.” But I wouldn’t. The night was too special for mundane imperfections. Only one focus was possible, holding Emma, dancing with her, making her happy, that concentration gave me an expertise I didn’t know I had.

Once, when we were spinning about the room, I allowed myself to glance around, but the faces were a party blur.

The music reached its final diminuendo, softening to violins only. Emma and I slowed with it, dancing closer than we had when the music began.

“I finally feel like you’re a friend and not a student,” she said.

“Thank you. I hope I will always be a friend,” I answered, enjoying the familiarity and comfort of her touch, my stiffness forgotten in the moment.

Was our touching each other sexual? Of course, how could it not be, holding her this close, in this perfect dance? And this, in all probability, would be the extent of our sexual relationship, one voluptuous dance a year.

At eighteen, I had been too scared and fragile to risk touching someone without explicit guidelines and rules. I saw sex as good or evil, abuse or love. But sex has the consequences you allow it to have, I thought.

The music ended.

“That was most enjoyable,” Emma said, still in my arms.

“And you,” I replied, “said you wanted nothing physical from me.”

“Well, I guess this is physical,” she answered, then she took my face between her hands and kissed me, for the first time, on the lips.

The crowd cheered, with several cries of, “Go, Emma,” and “Let’s hear it for older women.” I waved to them, as did Emma, both of us enjoying the attention.

As we walked off the dance floor, back to Emma’s friends, I glanced about, an idle glance, really. Cordelia was staring at me. Our eyes caught for a moment. She raised her glass to me, with a half-smile on her lips. I nodded briefly in return, then looked away, unsure of what to make of her gesture. Had Danny told her I was having an affair with Emma? Was she sardonically toasting that?

Emma led me into her circle of friends. My back was turned in Cordelia’s direction.

A different band now played and the watchers now became the dancers.

“I never could stand rock and roll,” Herbert said over me to Emma. “Shall we retire to the relative calm of the library?”

“An excellent idea,” Emma and several others assented.