Dancing Hours

I need to know him. It was the first thought that crossed my mind when I saw this man on a motorcycle riding toward me, right after my heart skipped a beat I felt a lump in my diaphragm. I had never felt that moment before. It was something about his silhouette, the shape of his body, the fit of his clothes. There was a confidence about him this almost oddly clean cut guy. His hat was on backwards to not fly off in the wind, underneath was a tidy trim of sandy hair, aviator sunglasses and a plain red shirt that graced the V frame of his broad shoulders and well-defined chest. I could only imagine the contours of his torso; but I could clearly register his strong muscular thighs wrapped in faded denim jeans. It was, perhaps, lust at first sight. He must have noticed my attention because his head turned toward me as he rode past and for a moment I felt his eyes on mine even behind the glasses. I felt suddenly warmer standing on the sidewalk in the sun with my books in hand. I d been struck by lightning. I continued watching him down the street, but I wasn t the only one. It was just like Kate to pull me back to reality. Who was that? she nearly screamed. I stammered, embarrassed at being interrupted in what felt like such a private moment. I don t know. I said. Well, I m gonna find out. Kate had her cellphone out and whipped out a text with her long, smooth brown fingers before I could finish processing what was going on. Within moments, teenage girls all over our town would become the ultimate spy network pooling information until we had an answer. It took less than five minutes. He was Mrs. Merchant s grandson or great-grandson or grandnephew or some such. He was here for the summer while his parents were visiting too. Mrs. Merchant had been around for ages. My parents referred to her as Old Lady Merchant but I thought that was disrespectful. She used to be the librarian, but retired before I was born. She lived alone just outside of town. I d taken a few meals to her with the local elderly meal program. She seemed lonely and liked to reminisce about when things moved slower, had less lights and beeping noises. I d never met or even heard of any family, so hot motorcycle-riding grandson was news to me. Good news. My mind lingered on plausible excuses to visit her while Kate continued her fact-finding mission. I couldn t come up with anything. It was just as well, I reasoned. This was my

last summer in small-town USA. In the fall I d be off to college, which set my mind in a completely different direction. I got lost in my daydream when I noticed my Nan come out of the drugstore across the street. She looked like a human peacock with her proud, colorful shuffle dressed in lavender pants, a cream polyester vest and a slightly darker purple blouse. She had on a white hat (with purple ribbon around it of course) and walked with a bedazzled cane to match her outfit. Nan may not be the richest woman in town, but she dressed to impress all the other little old ladies. As she walked I said goodbye to my friends and jogged into the street falling into step and folding my arm into hers with a little extra support. She never lost her half smile and didn t bother to acknowledge me. We were natural like this. It was for the fact of my helping her alone that I noticed a plain gray sedan rolling through town also with another, more serious looking guy inside. He paused dutifully as we made it to the curb and Nan waved her cane as a thanks. He nodded back. I turned to watch him go out of curiosity and reached for my phone again when Nan shocked me out of it Now don t go ruinin a nice day with that pesky device she snapped emphasizing the e in device as if it were two words. Abashed, I put it back in my pocket. How ya doin Ms. Nessa? asked a woman at the corner in a sing-songy voice as we approached. You re looking sharp today. Why thank you! I m better than I should be. How s your leg? Nan responded. That conversation hummed on for a few minutes while I let my mind drift off to college again. Nan was a talker. She was my grandmother, but she acted like everyone else in town s too. She talked to everyone about everything and could turn a discussion about the weather into a 45 minute affair. Everybody in town knew and loved my Nan. By extension, that meant everyone knew who I was too. So naturally I craved the anonymity of a big city. My parents weren t happy when I first told them I was going to Los Angeles for college. It was forever and a day away. I walked Nan to her car and we talked about when she d be over for dinner. She always came over for dinner. My mom was her only child born pretty late in Nan s life. After grandpa passed away, we were all Nan had for family. But she made family out of everyone she knew. We had more than a few Thanksgiving dinners with a dozen people that Nan invited without bothering to ask my mom. It didn t matter much anyway since my mom never did the cooking. We always ordered a package from some local restaurant in advance and lucky for us they had always had extra food on hand when we needed it.

When Nan drove off, I considered whether I wanted to go hiking or over to the coffee shop to sit and read one of the books I d just bought. It wasn t an easy decision. Getting lost in a book was easy, but getting lost in nature was more relaxing. I d have to walk home to get my car and drive to a good hiking spot, so my inertia decided for me. It would be the coffee shop for me. I turned to walk down the sidewalk a bit further when I saw another unfamiliar car headed down the street. There was a woman driving with gigantic sunglasses on her face. Her windows were tinted, so it was hard to see inside the car very well, but her car had California license plates and she didn t stop at the sign a block past me. It was a lot of excitement for my little town. The coffee shop was buzzing about the newcomers. I tried to tune them out and read my book, but found myself reading and rereading the sentences without fully comprehending them. After an hour of trying, I just decided to walk home and start deciding which of my things I was going to take to school in California. At least that was a productive daydream.