Waiting for You (RightMatch.com Trilogy) by Kathryn Shay

first stood like this because it underscored the woman she used to be. Her physician had recommended the chair and at first she’d balked. Any kind of dancing was off-limits. But a patient, insightful psychologist had helped her get over the “if I can’t be what I used to be in dance, I don’t want any part of it,” syndrome. And besides, the lure had been too great; eventually, she’d overcome the absolute humiliation of her limitations. Now, years later, she took pleasure in her five-eight frame standing erect, how her leotard—which she’d put on this morning so she could practice—gloved her upper body, showing curves, muscles and sinew to be proud of. Her hair was up in a knot and she wore an ankle-length skirt to cover her legs but allowed herself dance slippers. Squaring her upper torso into the traditional dance stance, she moved.
    Regardless of the class level, she began each workshop or semester with a review of the classical dance movements. As natural as walking, her arms drifted low in front of her body, barely touching her dance skirt. Palms rose into the air, thumbs turned inward, fingers supple, arms tracing an ellipse. She held the pose as she had thousands of times in the past. Then she went into first position. Her arms extended forward horizontally, hands at the level of her chest, kept carefully curved. Her shoulders automatically remained low and her chin stayed steady.
    Dana continued to watch herself as she went through the arm movements of third, fourth and fifth positions, some of which meant twisting at the waist. When she was finished, she began the head movements with a téte de face, face toward the front. When she went to profil , head to the right in profile, she stopped abruptly. Because she saw a man—big and beautiful—near the doorway.
    She was about to speak when he said, “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.” His voice was hoarse and full of emotion.
    She’d been called brilliant, extraordinaire, and a Paris critic had used the ultimate compliment by comparing her to a touted French prima ballerina. But Joe’s one simple sentence, uttered passionately, slid into her heart, her soul, softening her all over. She smiled at him. “Thank you, Joe.”
    When she reached for the controls to lower the seat, he said, “No, finish what you were doing. Let me watch a little longer.”
    Her hand stilled on the lever and something inside Dana shifted unwillingly. Unconsciously. Unwanted. But she did as he asked and, dear God, danced for him.
    o0o
    Joe had only cried a few times in his life since his father had died: when he got the news that his football career was over; when the divorce from Leona was finalized, and when his partner had been killed in the line of duty while Joe himself lay bleeding in an alley. But he felt like bawling as Dana continued her routine. She was breathtaking. Her movements were so fluid, they melded into each other. He was mesmerized by each angle of her arms, each tilt of her head, each subtle shift of her torso, outlined in dance garb. He was in some sort of trance, when he heard, “Joe? I’m done.”
    He blew out a heavy breath and grasped the doorjamb. “Wow.”
    She smiled, and he wondered briefly how she could take pleasure in doing so little when she’d once been able to do so much. Though he played other sports, he’d never participated in a pickup football game again after he’d gotten hurt. He watched as she lowered the chair into a seated position. Striding over to her, he bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Wow,” he reiterated, then dropped onto the floor, leaned against the mirror and stared up at her.
    She cocked her head, that movement as graceful as her earlier ones. “Not many people think to do that, right away at least.”
    “I’d hate having to look up at people all day.”
    Wiping a fine layer of perspiration off her face with a towel hooked over a bar of the wheelchair, she said, “Yeah, I do.