Page 45 of Love Is an Art
His hand brushes mine. The couple ahead of us stops to kiss. We both stare straight ahead and skirt around them. The air feels heavier now.
We stop at the corner. Mostly taxis and black cars race down West End Avenue, bringing the late-night revelers home. Do I believe him that he doesn’t know Jurgen? Do I tell him now?
Chapter thirteen
Tessa
Myphonebeeps.
Miranda:Great job on scammer dude. Hope date is going well! Sorry I didn’t see earlier text about painting. Walked home past salsa night at Lincoln Center! U guys should go if u like him.
“Lincoln Center is having a salsa night. Do you want to go?” I check my watch. “It’s probably ending soon, though.”
“That sounds great.”
“We can drop off the paintings at my apartment building and then pick them up after.”
Zeke glances at me. Does he think that’s an invitation to come over later?
I haven’t decided what I feel about that yet. Or rather, I’d like him to come over, but I have to tell him I’m a lawyer first. And I don’t have sex on the first date. But he must realize that. If I’m not about to share a silly picture of myself, I’m not about to get fully naked. No matter how tempting Zeke is.
We cross the street, pass the still-open deli, and walk down the wide avenue of 72ndStreet. At Broadway, we stroll south to Lincoln Center. We take a slight detour to drop off the paintings in my apartment building lobby for pick up later.
On Columbus Avenue, tables are set outside with diners conversing, lingering over dessert. We saunter past the people lined up for the Italian gelato place and the shuttered stores, the mannequins in the window flaunting flowery, summer fashions.
Lincoln Center is lit up, the flags announcing performances blowing in the breeze. A live band is playing salsa music. We jog up the steps, join the line, pass through the metal detectors, and we’re in. Zeke takes my hand, and we mingle with the crowds on the outskirts of the dance floor.
“You know that guy in the purple jacket that you talked to?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I know art is your thing and not mine,” he says. “But that guy seemed like a pretentious prick. When he approached me at that art reception we met at, he was so full of himself. He asked me if I was interested in any of the art and suggested he could negotiate a discount. I thought he seemed slimy, like he wanted to insert himself into the process and get a cut. I didn’t want to say anything at first if he’s someone influential. But I don’t trust him. Even if he comes recommended, you don’t need him.”
I squeeze his hand. “I don’t think I do.”
Yes!Zeke is not in cahoots. I believe him.
One hurdle down. I will tell him when we return to my apartment to pick up the paintings.
The three buildings that frame Lincoln Center are all aglow with a warm, yellow light. Red, blue, yellow, and purple lights tinge the sprays of the water fountain. The crowd is a huge New York melting pot, with everyone enjoying themselves, beaming at each other. That sense of community and esprit de corps is one of the things that I love most about New York City.
“Can you dance salsa?” I ask.
“I took ballroom dancing in college but haven’t danced since then.”
“It looks like there are lessons in that corner.” I point over to where an instructor with a headset stands in front of a line of people.
We join the class of about twenty people, ages ranging from six to seventy.
“Switch your weight when you step. It’s not a tap,” the instructor says.
We practice the steps in a line with the other students. Zeke is much better than me, but I’m getting the rhythm. The instructor waves his hands. “Go forth!”
Zeke taps me. “Should we try it out now?”
He takes my hand, placing his other hand on my back just below my shoulder blades. His touch is warm and sure. I curl my other hand on his shoulder, my forearm resting on his upper arm, as directed by the instructor. He’s so close and so masculine. My heart pounds.
We look at each other, waiting, and he nods his head to the beat. One, two, three, and we’re dancing.
