1 Dancing

She didn't like high school dances much; too loud, bad music and drunk students were not the ideal combination. Albeit she loved to dance, Frances wasn't the type to blend in much as she preferred to watch from afar. Give her ice skates and Hans Zimmer and she would burst with joy. A salsa, a tango, a walz or rock'n'roll and a good partner just as well, even though she didn't master any of those disciplines as well as she would like to. She was too old – her soul didn't belong – for dance, techno and other horrendous stuff. With a little luck, the playlist would include some vintage music. The blues brothers, Sting, perhaps some Queen as well? Those she could enjoy without a partner.

For the long, flaring dress of dark blue and the light make-up she had conceded to apply weren't meant for a boyfriend; no time for that. Or rather, no space in her heart, for it was consumed by another. An unthinkable crush that could never become anything more than a fantasy. Yet, her eyes never failed to search his face every time she passed the school gates. His tall frame, lithe and strong, his purposeful strides and chiselled features might have won on their own, but she also knew the warmth of his embrace, and the smell of his cologne. Knew the beauty of his secretive smile and how to read the gleam of interest that sometimes showed in his grey eyes. The most handsome man she'd ever met, with a magnetism that never failed to attract her. She was the iron to his magnetite.

And tonight would be the last time she saw him; tomorrow would come quickly enough. And while her eyes roamed the crowded gymnasium – left to her own devices – she missed the tall figure that watched her from afar, drinking in a flask that returned inside his vest pocket. The previous song ended merrily, couples and loners alike cheering, leaving space for a quick silence. Frances wondered what would come next, good or bad? Danceable, or without spine? A modern rhythm box with an equally talentless lady singing an easy tune?

The first bars of Mark Knopfler's secondary waltz echoed in the gymnasium, earning a few disapproving frowns. A waltz! No one knew how to dance such a thing except a few freaks and the teachers. A full smile bloomed upon Frances' rosy lips, wondering if her geography teacher had had a hand in choosing the music, or if it was pure coincidence. Yet ... a waltz, sung by one of her favourite artists nonetheless! This was her lucky day ... she couldn't imagine how true this statement was. Suddenly, the dance floor cleared up; only a few couples remained, most of them not even following the steps but enjoying their time together. Frances remembered fondly the day her grandfather had taught her waltzing, feet naked, over the sand of southern Spain. She'd been twelve then; the best vacation of her life.

— "May I have this dance?" a familiar voice echoed in her ear.

She whirled around in surprise, smacking into a dark-shirted chest whose scent she would have recognised anywhere. Her little nose scrunched; alcohol mingled in the cherished fragrance as a warm hand stabilised her.

— "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you but the sound is rather loud."

Was it a good enough excuse to stand so close? Probably not, but Frances was so overwhelmed by his presence that she barely nodded. Her geography teacher extended his hand, and the cogs in her mind started working again. Dance? A waltz, with him?

There were a thousand reasons why she shouldn't. The most obvious one; she was in love with this man ... this very married man. The ring still shone upon his finger; a herald of doom. But hell, if he was going to leave her life for the rest of eternity, she was entitled to one last moment in his arms. His grey eyes watched her face, his posture straight enough; despite her fears, he wasn't too drunk. So she smiled, and slid her hand into his. Touching him, skin to skin, for the first time.

It felt like the last link of a chain snapping close, connecting both sides of a circle. A vibrant bond, as the heat of her fingers pulsated around his. And Mark Knopfler, oblivious to the war raging in her chest, went on. Talking of waltzing and high school girls. How strangely fitting.

Mr Kristiansen led her to the dance floor, leaving her hand until he turned around to face her. With the low lights, she had trouble reading his expression. He stood tall and pulled his arm aside to set the correct distance for a waltz. Then, flashing her a mischievous grin, he stepped a little closer. Frances gasped, feeling very much like Rose in Titanic, when, for the first time of her life, a man had invaded her space; his scent reached her anew, his body not touching hers, but a breath apart. She could feel the heat of his frame radiating, passing through the fabric of her dress so easily. Her head titled to the side; she just couldn't meet his gaze from that close. The man didn't protest, splaying his other hand on her upper back. She had to take a deep breath before she lifted her own limb to circle his lithe frame. There, there were intertwined now.

One, two, three beats and they were off waltzing. At first, little steps to let them adjust to each other. It wasn't difficult; Mr Kristiansen was a strong leader. Not forceful, but she found that she loved following him. Who would have known that their geography teacher enjoyed such an archaic thing as waltzing? And she had no doubt that he enjoyed it, for after a while, she lifted her eyes to meet his and found pure delight blooming in his grey irises. He was so incredibly handsome, with this smile upon his face and mid long hair dancing about. And that little something, that gleam that passed in his gaze was so intense that she blushed and had to look away.

His hold upon her back shifted slightly, his fingers tightening ever so subtly that she doubted anything had happened at all until the music paused – a tiny second – before it picked up again. But her partner decided to sway backwards, a grin pulling at his lips. Frances almost stumbled; she had not been expecting such a break in the waltzing. His arms secured her instantly, pulling her a little closer as he imprinted slow sways, following the leisurely pace of the song for a few precious seconds. He marked a pause again, and resumed the proper direction.

Fortunately, the dance floor was nearly deserted, allowing some fantasy. His eyes twinkled in delight when, this time, she followed his lead without missing a beat. Like a leaf in the wind, desperately clinging to her branch, Frances swayed against him. Led by strong arms, lost in a warm embrace, unable to do anything but surrender to his will as her body enjoyed the exertion. She was dancing, flying, turning again and again, supported every step of the way by that man she so admired. Such an intimate embrace, yet all proper from the outside; despite the waltz position, she felt her body burn. Her heart beat in her palm, where her skin intertwined with his so easily. For a moment she just closed her eyes and abandoned all sense of control. He wouldn't lead her astray, would he?

And when the song came to an end, she didn't expect him to twist around and bend at the waist playfully, sending her plummeting backwards. Yet, there was no stress when she should have jolted. Instead, Frances held on to his hand, trusting him to keep her from falling as she arched her back, unfurling like a cat, her only lifeline the geography teacher whose feet remained firmly planted in the ground. An infectious grin spread over his lips, the biggest smile she had ever witnessed on his usually reserved features; it left her too dazed to speak. So when he set her onto her feet, Frances was entirely too flustered to realise her hand still clutched his, or that the next song was a rock'n'roll that she adored. Standing beside him, gazing in the most beautiful eyes, the world seemed to melt away.

— "You all right, Frances?"

Her name rolled off his lips so easily, if a bit slurred; could he be drunk? It would certainly explain why he smiled that much, or why the lines of propriety seemed to blur at his contact. His voice, though, awakened her frontal lobe and her wits returned full force. This is when she realised that the next song playing was "Expresso love" from Dire Straits. A sudden suspicion arose as she lifted an eyebrow to him.

— "Did you have a hand in..."

— "The playlist, yeah. I had to whine a bit but I needed something to dance to."

Her lips quirked, amused by his not so innocent look – she knew he loved Dire Straits ... and he knew she shared his passion. But when she attempted to retrieve her hand, his fingers only tightened around hers.

— "Dance with me, Frances"

His sultry tone caused her breath to hitch, and she had to shake herself out of the Tristan induced haze to respond.

— "You know what they said in Georgian times. Two dances with the same woman..."

— "You certainly know your history, Frances."

She was biting her lip now, undecided. He was a teacher, clearly a little inebriated; a man she would kiss senseless at the first occasion. And even if he didn't realise it – or did he? – he was clearly in a flirting mood. How would his reputation fare should people notice a second dance, a couple's dance, with a student?

— "Frances?"

His hand was tugging now, insistent, and she realised she just couldn't let go now. There would be time once the song was finished, to accept her fate. But not now; if he intended to offer three more precious minutes in his arms, who was she to refuse? For once, she was tired of being reasonable and denying her whims. So she nodded , and the beaming smile that bloomed on his face was so worth it. It could have melted the Antarctic!

And so they faced each other again, soaking in the great riffs of "Expresso Love" that only begged to be danced upon. And dance they did; a few basic steps, twice, then Mr Kristiansen started unleashing his talent. And God, he was good! If waltzing had felt like a gentle carousel, a call to relax and enjoy simple swirls in his arms, Rock'n'roll with him was akin to climbing into a roller coaster. Frances' rock days were few, causing her to miss steps here and there but it didn't matter for his arms never faltered. She gravitated around him like a planet around the sun. And what a sun! Bright, and burning, feverish even as his long hands led her around him, twisting, turning, leaving her hand on one side and picking it up in the other. For a moment, the young woman was so overwhelmed that she could only follow.

Then, little by little, she started to let go. Let go of the steps which, in the end, could be mingled a little as long as she kept the trajectory. Let go of the weariness that told her to stay away. Let go of her principles as she enjoyed herself thoroughly, surrendering her body to a man that she trusted. Wherever he led, she went, whenever he twisted his hand, she would turn around; whenever he smiled, her heart leapt in joy.

Until she missed a step, then another, and lost the rhythm entirely. Sheepish, she looked up, trying to attune herself to him once more. But instead, he gathered her into his arms and whispered in her ear.

— "Tired?"

Frances nodded, helpless at repressing the shudder that ran up her spine. Damn that man with such a sensual voice. And those warm hands, mmm. And instead of starting the steps again, he just swayed them for a while, his heart beating so hard against his chest that she saw the vibration of his dark shirt. She so badly wanted to lay her hand upon it. He looked so incredibly gorgeous... Frances sighed, and eventually allowed her head to rest against his collarbone. She was sure that, for a few seconds, his cheek touched her hair. And while the beat of the rock remained unchanged, they both took a great breath of contentment.

— "I'm crazy for that girl," he murmured in her ear.

And despite the fact that those words came from the song, she couldn't help but feel that they were meant for her.

His spine suddenly stiffened and Frances pulled away immediately. But her teacher's gaze was fixed elsewhere, and when he returned his attention to her, it was to whisk her away in the dance again. Again and again, the same moves, more graceful now that she knew his patterns. More forceful, as he put more energy into it. Perhaps a little desperate, as the guitar riff sung and the ending came close. As the song picked up energy, so did they, mingling the steps as they circled against each other. Daring more, until he wound his arms around her and lifted her up entirely, turning and turning. Frances lifted one of her legs, like a skating porté, letting go as his strong arms encased her against his chest. She was truly flying this time, and it was exhilarating ... so much that when he stumbled, she was almost sent sprawling to the ground.

His recovery didn't cover the fact that his equilibrium was all messed up, and Frances laughed it off.

— "That's it, you're drunk."

Her geography teacher gave her a sheepish smile, so boyish, so disappointed that it tugged at her heart. So, instead of kicking his ass away to his colleagues, she grabbed his arm and tugged.

— "Come, you need a glass of water and a little downtime."

And while they made it off the building, the music's end gathered a chorus of students who had enjoyed the song as much as they had; Rock'N'Roll wasn't dead after all. She led Tristan to the men's room, waiting for him to emerge as boys went to and fro, some underage and looking very smashed ... and not necessarily with alcohol. Would the supervisors show up at any point? This was bound to end up badly. Further away, she could hear a few couples giggle under the stairs.

Frowning, Frances realised that Mr Kristiansen had yet to show up, and each passing minute caused her worry to increase. Perhaps she would have to enlist some help to throw him into a taxi? She was about to ask a boy of seventeen to tell her about the status inside when he emerged, his face washed off and droplets clinging to his lovely straight nose. His hair was damp in places, as if he had thrown his head into the sink directly. And his shoulders ... Defeated. So far from the man that had asked her to dance so cheekily.

— "Will you be all right?" she asked, concerned.

— "Yes... No. I ... listen, can we talk? Before..."

Before they had to say goodbye? The very notion caused her stomach to clench painfully. Anything, anything to keep him to herself one more minute. Even if she had to write a thousand-page essay on Louis the XV. Anything.

— "OK," she shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant.

Her feelings must remain hidden at all costs. Something flickered behind his eyes, some kind of shadow for he did not come any closer. Instead, he seemed to grind his teeth together, as if considering the foolishness of his next request. Need eventually won the battle against reason as he whispered.

— "Not here. Meet me in my classroom"