The Rom-Commers

by Katherine Center

Maybe it was because he’d been so insulting and so dismissive to me back in the car. But now that I had some food in my stomach and some money in my bra, the idea of giving this guy a little comeuppance felt pretty appealing.

I’d always kind of harbored a suspicion that I might be a secret dancing savant. Not line dancing per se, but just—from all the moves I’d busted in the kitchen while cooking over the years—I’d nursed a secret fantasy that maybe, if I ever really tried to dance, I’d astonish us all. Ten minutes into that chance, I stood corrected. I was not secretly awesome. I was terrible.