Back when I was single, I liked to dance at a local country bar with live music. I went simply to dance. I used a line on men who asked me where I worked. With a straight face, I informed them I was an undertaker. Their eyes grew wide, not quite sure if I was serious or joking.
“Is that a problem,” I asked. On the off chance it might be the truth, they maintained a serious face. My ploy worked. I didn’t have to field any more questions. In my recent novel, Zal Pruett has her own encounter with a man who unexpectedly asks her to dance.
Excerpt from Tattered Covers:
“Care to dance?” The man looked down at her. His unsmiling lips fell in the midst of a large volcano of beard, its jagged edges falling to his chest.
Zal froze, failing to comprehend why the hillbilly wanted to dance with her. Was there even a dance floor? She looked at Burt and gave a subtle shake of her head. She pleaded silently, imploring his intervention.
With a generous smile, Burt gestured in the direction of the dance floor.
He wanted her to dance with the goober?
Cougar grabbed her hand and pulled her from the chair. The strange man led her to the dance floor, the size of a double door, and to her dismay, the mellow music suggested a slow dance. She twisted her head back and frowned in disbelief. What was wrong with Burt?
Unfortunately for Zal, this is not the last she’ll see of the scraggly man called Cougar.
Tattered Covers by Lucinda Stein
Demonstration of the Pretzel (part of the country swing dance)