Julie Langford was not a dancer.
She was not an avid party-goer, a swinger, never danced with overly-friendly men at get-togethers. Julie was, in the lamest of terms, a wallflower. She was happy enough with a glass of alcohol and a cigarette kept to her person, and, if she decided to stay, only stayed for the music.
The few times she did party, if anyone would call it that, was when she was under the company of Brigid Tenenbaum. When she and Brigid would rendezvous after a long day’s work in the labs, getting all dressed up for their own pleasure, donning slim dresses and babydoll heels and walking through The Kashmir’s doors as if no one else existed. When she and Brigid would clink glasses together, and Brigid would be forced to speak louder to be heard over the band, and Julie would laugh wholeheartedly and place her hand over Brigid’s.
When the clock would strike twelve, then one, then two in the morning, and the party guests had finally wound down and even the rare survivors had begun to file out to sleep off the night. The band was no longer a rapid melting pot of trumpets and drums, the air was all the colder, and a quiet jazz filled the space the people had left behind. It was times like this that Julie found her confidence (whether it was in Brigid or the booze or the lack of sleep, she never really understood), standing up coolly and holding out her elbow to Brigid, who never refused her company. Julie escorted her to the dance floor, the mere outskirts of it, and extended her hands in offering.
Julie knew that, like herself, Brigid was not a dancer. Brigid was not a lot of things, but a dancer especially, and she always made it bluntly obvious. But the floor was nearly cleared, and the lull of jazz was intoxicating by itself, and her hands would find Julie’s shoulders as Julie would cup her waist and they would rock so gently, hardly picking up their feet. And it was such a relief for the two of them, being so close and in public, not hiding their affections in the sole privacy of their own homes.
Something in the rhythm of the music told Julie that it was the last of the night. The magic was out of the air, and it seemed that Rapture was nearly asleep. Brigid seemed to know as well, resting her head in the crook of Julie’s neck as they swayed, bringing her arms higher to balance herself in the woman’s hold.
Saxophones hummed and synchronized, and, in that moment, everything was perfect. Julie could trace the gentle curve of Brigid’s hips as they danced, feel her soft breathing and slim fingers caressing her hairline. Felt Brigid’s lips graze her jawline, then met her halfway as they embraced, no longer hearing the beat of the music.
And it was perfect.