[link]“Well I’m just about fed up with it,” bewailed Holly loudly. “Every single time we rent an inn room with only one bed, that bastard always gets it! He’s not so delicate that he can’t sleep on the couch!”
Simon, overhearing this conversation, took another swig if his beer before slipping in-between Holly and her conversation partner. “Excuse me, loves—my Holly senses are tingling, and I can’t help but hear you complaining about me,” he said with a languid smile.
Holly was tipsy now—this much was clear. She turned up her nose. “Yes, you heard correctly, Simon. I am sick and tired of you taking the good bed every single time.”
Just when he was about to reply, the first chords of “Little Bitty Pretty One” struck out on the record player and an idea as well as a grin seized him at once. “Okay, that’s fair,” he said. “So how about we make a deal, then?”
“Yes. You do one dance with me—just one—and you get the bed for the next week.”
Holly snorted. “What! That’s daft!”
“Well if you don’t want the bed…” hedged Simon.
“Of course I want the bed!”
‘Then dance with me.”
“Do it,” laughed Delaney.
“It’s mad. You shouldn’t dance anyway, Simon—your lungs-”
Simon waved her away. “I’ve taken my medicine and I can last two minutes without the tank. It’ll be fine.” He removed his cannula as if to punctuate the statement.
“Well,” said Holly, “I don’t know how to dance.”
“Neither can I,” he replied, already taking her by the hand and dragging her to the dance floor among the other swinging Irishmen and women.
“I can’t dance!”
“Shut up, everyone can dance. You’re not crippled, are you?”
Holly was about to respond, but the full swing of the song drowned her out and Simon pulled her into a spin. His mind was reeling, trying to remember the basic steps to the Lindy Hop as he tapped his smart leather shoes against the wooden floor. Holly fumbled along after him without grace, rhythm or delicacy, looking utterly bewildered.
art, characters, writing (c) me