Geriatrics: A Fictional Narrative

“Polka,” I repeated.
He nodded, a smile stretching across his face.
“And how are you a regular among this crowd of geriatrics?” I asked.
“I had the privilege of being my mother’s date last year when my dad was recovering from a sprained back muscle. I took her every week for two months.”
“So you’re probably pretty good, then,” I teased.
He leaned close to me, his head bent down and those delicious depths of eyes looked up at me.
“Baby, I can two-step my way into any pair of panties I want,” he cooed with a devilish grin.
I glanced around the room before lowering my head to his.
“You mean girdle?”
For the second time during our date, we were laughing so hard my sides began to hurt.
The music died down as accordion player tapped the mic. A hush fell over the gym as everyone took a seat.
“Welcome everyone to this

I smiled but didn’t move. I looked out at the dance floor at the couples stepping, hopping, and twirling. Sometimes I could barely walk across a room without tripping on the colors in the carpet. I had no idea how I was going to dance gracefully across the floor without making a total fool of myself.
“Nervous again?” he asked as if reading my mind.
I nodded. He grinned and pulled his chair under him so he was sitting right in front of me. His hand slid under mine and gently rubbed the back of it.
“I’ll teach you. We’ll go slow. Don’t worry about what they think. They’ll appreciate someone who is willing to learn,” he said.
Between the soft pleading in his eyes, the closeness of his body, and the gentle caress on my skin, I would have jumped out of the International Space Station if he asked. I glanced back out on the floor, still unsure if I was willing to put myself out there.
“How about this. Every time you accidentally step on my toes, I’ll take you on another date,” he bargained.
“That sounds more like an incentive to step on your toes,” I said.
“Says the woman who’s about to learn how to polka on a date,” he