Sam was about to take her first sip when she noticed a pair of men’s Italian shoes step up to her table. She lifted her eyes to a striking male with wild curly hair and a dark beard. He wore a gold chain that rested on his bare chest, his silk shirt unbuttoned to reveal a tuft of chest hair.
She looked into his smiling eyes. He showed her his teeth that glistened under the disco lights and held out his hand to her. She took it without a second thought and was on the dance floor before she’d had a sip of her drink!
Samantha smiled at her luck because this man was leading her with simple aplomb and gentle nudges she needed to follow. He was a master, maneuvering her across the floor. When he twirled her away and found her again; when he dipped her in his arms, and when the dance ended, he’d arched her back, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“Please don’t go anywhere,” he said when he led her back to her table.
She perched on the chair taking big gulps of a vodka collins and looked around for her sister Caroline. She leaned back, thinking of her dance partner. His foreign accent made Samantha think of her darling Jacques. That’s why I’m attracted to him, and his smooth ability on the dance floor. But she found other objections because men who wore jewelry had never appealed to her. Her thoughts brought on that stabbing twinge of grief she’d avoided. Falling into an otherwise inspiring evening, it would lead her to a deeper cavern of mourning than she could endure.
She spied her guy coming back out of the lounge and turned her head away. He approached, put out his hand, and without hesitation, she slid onto the floor.
He pulled her toward him, focussed on her emerald eyes, laughing. What does he have to be so happy about? Does he expect some equivalent response from me? No matter, I’m here to dance, to forget. Nothing more! He crushed her in his arms to How Deep Is Your Love by the Bee Gees.
A tear slid down Samantha’s cheek. She fought her grief and turned her face away.
He pulled away, “Are you okay?”
“Sorry, I can’t.” She said and strolled to the lady’s room, head held high.
Entering the restroom, Sam caught a flash of herself in the mirror. She’d forgotten she had worn the dark wig this evening. It was a startling image. Black eye-makeup running, she appeared like some banshee from hell. Samantha cleaned up her mascara with a tissue and tugged at the stupid wig to secure it, then lifted her skirt to tug the high-cut leotard in place before she swam back into the crowded dark disco to find her sister Caroline seated at their table with a young man.
Caroline smiled, “Was that David Mancuso you were dancing with? He’s amazing.”
Sam sipped her drink, “No, but you’re right, she sighed, he is a good dance partner.”
Caroline lifted her eyebrows and shifted her eyes, signaling Samantha that her dance partner was on his way over.
He towered over the women,
“Armand, this is my sister, Caroline.”
“Ah, two beauties in one family,” he said.
Caroline raised her hand to him, “And you are?”
His eyes crinkled at Samantha, “Armand” he smiled, placing his fingers on Caroline’s palm.
Caroline’s young man stood, hand held out. She rose and waved at Samantha when he spun her onto the dance floor, her afro-style cloud of kinky black hair following her like a billowing storm that contrasted her pale milky skin. Caroline was breathtaking to watch on the floor in her purple dress with gold platform sandals.
Samantha stood expecting to dance, but Armand placed his warm hand on the curve of her lower back and guided her out to the red-carpeted lounge.
He leaned against the bar and ordered a tall glass of Perrier for her to sip while he stared at her chest. All men do that. She was used to it. He sidled closer and placed his left hand under her skirt, just running it up the back of her thigh to the line of the leotard. She eyed him carefully. He giggled like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. She slapped his hand and smiled when he pulled it away.
“My name is Samantha. Do you come here often?”
“Yes, he chuckled, the owner is my good friend. I’m a partner in this place.”
She gave him a skeptical eye, and he laughed, “Honest, it’s true!”
He giggled, sliding his hand up her hip again. She allowed it just to see how far he would go before she slapped his face, which she would never do, but he didn’t know that.
Sam gave him a warning stare. He responded with a sparkling grin which made her laugh, but Samantha was sick of feeling sad and guilty.
She stayed in public view for safety’s sake, and she waved,
“I’ll see you on the dance floor, Armand.”
Armand showed up at her table like a lost puppy and put his hand out. She didn’t slap it but stood instead, tugging him onto the floor, and led him to the world that was her haven against depression. It aroused Samantha because the music was a simple, clean disco with no lyrics by Queen.
Armand was most graceful on the dance floor, and she, in her element, floated through space. The two flawless dancers cast a spell over the room. The other dancers fell away while Armand and Samantha took over the floor. Sam wished she could fade away in this cloud of glory and applause as the song ended; when he dipped her and laughed gleefully.
A simple thing like joy seemed out of her reach, but she smiled, attempting a pitiful experiment. Laughter hadn’t been present in her repertoire. But Armand’s personal happiness seemed innate.
He was straight-forward and somewhat puzzling. Armand seemed vulnerable somehow, and so she grew to trust his intentions and appreciate his joy. It had been a long time since she had felt genuinely happy. But that wasn’t all. When she rose to take his hand, his confident style claimed her body. She didn’t need to think, only to allow him to master her with his professional moves, inviting an audience of cheering onlookers. She forgave him for not being Jacques.
Armand could never have passed anonymously through any door. Women lifted and screwed their heads to watch him walk across the floor as if he were a celebrity. And she was the lucky one. With relentless casual charm, he held her dangerously close while they danced to the final song “Last Dance” by Donna Summer and strolled off the floor with applause all around.
Sam paused at their table, but she didn’t see Caroline.
Armand followed her and giggled like a girl when he pulled her to him, “Don’t go anywhere?”
At that, she laughed, “I have to go home.”
Armand walked her toward the lounge where Caroline was sitting at the bar conversing with her young man.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Armand offered.
“It’s my sister’s car.”
Armand shook his head, “You’re a tough cookie,” he laughed.
Samantha spoke to Caroline, “I’ll meet you at the car in a few minutes.”
They had a pact and stuck to it. She turned and strolled outside with Armand.
To be continued: Armand Part II
“I had this idiotic feeling of superiority because I was a pro and thought it gave me a license to show everything like they do in the movies. I’d been modeling clothing as a dancer for Cy Amber of Hollywood at the Daisy. I gave up my modeling career and sadly my personal career goals to live close to my children after the divorce.”