Phantom Pain

Then one night he saw her come in. Couldn’t believe his eyes. 

He asked for one last dance. She didn’t say no. They’d taken that Arthur Murray class. Before the cruise. Was he really supposed to know a salsa from a mamba? Waltz tango foxtrot, indeed. All he could think about was banging the instructor. But he knew how to slow dance. Who didn’t? Every eighth grader had learned how to get up close and hold on for dear life, 

“Why did you go?” he finally asked. 

No answer. 

“Let him alone,” said Big Mike from behind the bar to anyone who raised an eyebrow. Grote spun slowly in tight spirals. Spectral. Wraithlike. Shuffling his feet, arms bowed out, fingers locked. From a distance it looked like he was holding out a hula hoop around her. Drifting and circling.

Alone. 

Scott’s prompts were: During a Break-Up, a Ghost, Dancing