A Dance with a Stranger

The flashing lights danced on the checkered floor, pulsating with every beat of the music. The rhythm coursed through my body as though I was part of the song. People flickered like colored ghosts—red, blue, purple, white, yellow—disappearing into darkness when the beat stopped. A new pulse ignited an uproar, shaking the crowd into a frenzy. Bright dots shimmered and darted across the incandescent floor squares, chasing the pounding rhythm.

Making my way through the dance floor to our table, I caught sight of him sitting at a crowded table, talking but watching me. I smiled slightly and veered left to join my party. My newlywed husband of three months was dancing in the middle of a group of women, throwing 70s-style moves that no one uses anymore. I smirked at his foolishness, lifted my drink from the table, and took a long sip.

“What are you drinking?” a voice yelled over my shoulder. Turning, I saw the man from the table—pink lips under a finely trimmed mustache.

“Sex on the beach,” I said, cheeks burning as he turned and walked toward the bar. His gait had an effortless charm. When he returned, he handed me a drink and sat beside me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Sex on the beach,” he said with a grin. His dark brown eyes met mine, framed by slightly curly black hair. Before I could ask his name, he leaned closer. “Wanna dance?” he asked as the music shifted.

We hit the dance floor, the groove fast and exhilarating. There was no need for touching; our steps spoke louder. I had to look up to see his face. His mustache curved downward at the edges, and his chin, slightly pointy, was softened by a hint of stubble. His uniform—a pressed navy blue shirt and straight-legged pants adorned with shiny brass—hinted at his military rank. His eyes never left mine. As the music slowed, he took my hands, pulling me closer. The couples around us clung together, swaying to the soft melody.

“What’s your name?” he finally asked.

“Carol,” I replied. “And yours?”

He tapped the name tag above his breast pocket. We danced until the music changed again, transitioning back to the high-energy beat. Time blurred as we moved together. 

When the night ended, he walked me back to my seat. My husband approached, kissed my cheek, and the man disappeared into the crowd without a word.

As we left, I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d met the man of my dreams—tall, dark, handsome, and in uniform. A stranger from out of town who, for one night, felt like destiny. 

The next day, my girlfriend told me he’d returned to the nightclub and asked about me. His name, etched on his uniform, stayed with me, unforgettable. But I never acted on my impulses. That moment faded, like the music, leaving only a bittersweet memory of what could have been.