Palmetto Moon by Kim Boykin Page A

movements are effortless and so graceful, her feet barely touch the floor. Frank struggles to keep up with her. She’s lost in the wail of the orchestra, eyes closed, completely unaware of anything but the music until the applause at the end of the song brings her back to him.
    She smiles and stands on her tiptoes so Frank can hear her above the crowd. “Do you come here often?”
    He shakes his head. “Not in a long time. Anybody ever tell you you’re a damn-fine dancer?”
    “You just did.” She grabs his hand, pulls him into the middle of the floor, and stutters out a few dance steps. He tries to follow but has a hard time watching her feet when he’s so lost in her face. She takes his face in her hands and points it at her swiveling hips. “It’s the jitterbug, silly.” Holy mother of God. She leads. Frank follows and sort of picks it up until the last few bars of the staccato tune end.
    The air is thick and humid with a thousand girlie perfumes, too much Old Spice, and sweat. Frank’s shirt sticks to him, and it’s hard to breathe, or maybe he’s afraid to breathe, afraid that he’ll discover this perfect date was just a product of too much wishing, hoping. Desire. But it’s not just him. The whole room is so full of wanting, the couple next to them start making out on the dance floor like they are possessed. Two burly bouncers pull them apart and throw the guy out without warning. But the rules listed on the four-foot-by-six-foot piece of plywood on the way in strictly prohibit inappropriate public displays of affection on the dance floor.
    Vada laughs and falls into his arms, breathing hard against his chest, and he’s grateful a slow song starts up so he can keep her there. She rests her head on his shoulder; he rests his chin on her crown and prays that his private doesn’t salute her again. She snuggles even closer, looks up at him, and smiles. A thin veil of sweat beads just above the most kissable lips Frank has ever seen in his life. He keeps shuffling his feet slowly in time to the music, wanting to be controlled, not wanting to rush something that he wants to last forever.
    He doesn’t hear her sigh above the noise of the crowd, but feels it against his chest. He can’t take this anymore. “Do you want to get out of here?” His lips linger close to her ear and make her shudder. She doesn’t look at him but runs her slender fingers down his chest like she doesn’t want the embrace to end any more than Frank does. She looks into his face and nods, no warm smile, just longing tinged with something else.
    Frank’s choice is between the gazebo out back, overlooking a small pond, a place lovers go, and back to the car and, ultimately, Round O. He’s not ready to take her home, so he takes her hand and leads her to the back of the dance hall. The bouncer opens the door. The night air is sticky and hot, but so much cooler than the writhing inferno inside. “Sure you want to step outside? You’ll have to pay to come back in.”
    He looks at Vada to see what she wants; she smiles at him. “I’m sure.”
    They walk down toward the gazebo, draped with lovers making out, pressed up against the railings, sitting on hard wooden benches Frank is sure they don’t feel. The moon is generous, and he can see Vada blush when they get close enough to hear the heavy breathing, the moaning, the whispered declarations of love and forever. Vada goes over to the side of the gazebo that’s open to the pond below; she takes off her shoes, dangling her feet above the black water.
    “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” She stretches out her long legs and smiles at him, teasing before she scoops up a handful of water and flicks it on him. Frank laughs, and she laughs, too, shutting out all the lovers’ sounds and the night sounds, too. He sits beside her and pulls her close so that her feet aren’t dangling over the edge anymore. “See that?” He points out into the lily pads that are lovingly choking the