New York City's Greatest Dance Hall
“Let’s go dancing!” Lottie clapped her hands at the force of her brilliant idea. Her exuberance would fool anyone else into believing she’d just had a thunderbolt of inspiration, but Tom knew better. Lottie’s curled blonde hair and swinging satin dress meant that she’d been brewing this plan for hours.
Tom sighed and set down the dinner dishes he was washing. It wasn’t much—just spaghetti with bottled sauce—but it took forever to get the marinara stain off their white bowls. Given that there were only two, getting them sparkling clean in time for tomorrow’s cereal felt important.
“You know we can’t,” Tom said. “There was barely enough money for this meal. We can’t scrape it together.”
“I know, I know.” Lottie said as she plopped dejected into their dinette’s only vinyl chair. The yellow foam of its cushion peeked out in a few places, but the chrome frame was sturdy and untarnished. It felt like a gem when they saw it for free on the corner of West 132nd two years ago. They’d giddily carried it the three blocks over and six flights up to what was then their new apartment. It was a hopeful time when the city seemed to manifest everything the young couple needed. They were so in love—with the city and each other—that their poverty felt romantic.
Now the shine was off of everything that once glittered. The days of wandering busy streets hand in hand faded to grumbled commutes on crowded subway trains. The nights of lying tangled together morphed into strained conversations like this one, where they always played the same roles. Lottie: a dreamer who saw everything as a fated sign to seize the life they once imagined. Tom: a pragmatist who saw the sheer length of life as proof that happiness could be put off, perhaps indefinitely, due to their present circumstances. The topic of their arguments varied, but the ending didn’t. Lottie always conceded to practicality with barely contained tears. Tom always felt awful in his victory.
Tom hated the way Lottie looked when she was sad. Hated it even more when he was the cause of it. He watched her elegant face twist into a scowl as she stared out the rain-streaked window. She had full lips that were perfect for pouting, but Tom preferred them stretched thin over her teeth. Just like he preferred to see her penciled brows dancing high in delighted surprise, rather than knit together over her green eyes. But his preferences didn’t matter. There was nothing to do. They didn’t have the money. Tom watched helplessly as the spark in his wife faded.
The cherry red nails of her long fingers tapped on the chipped formica table for far too long before he got the idea. Lottie’s sadness was oppressive enough that he didn’t think it through. He just pulled her out the door, grabbing an umbrella on his way.
“Tom! What in the world?”
“You’ll see.”
Tom led Lottie up five floors, through a dented metal door and onto their building’s roof. He stepped out into the pooling rain of the flat concrete and unfurled his umbrella. Lottie stayed in the doorway, arms crossed.
“What’re you playing at? Why are we up here?”
“I always love that skyline. Don’t you?”
“Sure, in the summer.”
“Any time of year, Lottie. That’s why we came here. New York was the dream. Remember? And we still can make it magical, no matter the weather.”
Lottie’s quizzical brows and crossed arms both lowered.
“It is pretty,” she admitted. “But come on back here. We can watch the city with dry feet.”
“We’re not gonna watch it, baby. We’re gonna live in it. You always say we only get one shot at life. If that’s true, then I’m not letting anything stop me from making you smile. Not rain. Not money. And certainly not my own hardheadedness.”
With that Tom pulled Lottie from under the cover of the stairwell and into the safety of his arms. Then they began to waltz. The rain gave rhythm and Tom hummed a melody. They swayed there in the standing water until their teeth chattered within wide smiles.
“You look like you’re ready for the next dance hall,” Tom said.
“Sure am,” Lottie replied.
“Then follow me. I know just the place,” he said before leaping across the alley to the waiting roof of the neighboring building.
Author’s Note: This story started as a response to a writing prompt project I do with friends. (I invite Instagram folks to participate too.) Each week one of us texts an image, then everyone replies with micro-fiction or poetry. I like to write mine while I wait in line for coffee. The stories are quick jolts meant to jostle you out of literary stagnation.
Most weeks, we text our stories, offer quick feedback and keep moving through our lives. But on the week we were prompted by the Rodney Smith image above, my friend texted wishing there was more meat on the bone of my very short story. Given how rare that kind of request is (and frankly, how much writer’s block I’ve had lately) I decided to oblige with this longer version. You can see the original in the comments of this reel.
I hope you enjoyed a fuller picture of Lottie and Tom. Maybe they’ll even inspire you to go dance with someone you love, weather and practicality be damned.
Such a sweet little tale! Love the duality of the characters ♥️ and what a great title!