The songs are simple and catchy, and Yolanda taps her feet. She’s barely touched her margarita, because, side effect of the chemo, the cold hurts her fingertips. When the doctor told her an occasional glass of wine was okay, she’d nearly laughed. She couldn’t imagine wanting to pour more poison into her system. Now, though, she pulls the stem toward her and sips from the edge, and as the liquor moves through her, her mood lifts.
When her pulled pork sandwich arrives, she’s starving. It’s perfect: savory and spicy and sweet, the bread collapsing under the sauce.
“Look at you eating with a fork,” says Sylvie.
“A real lady!” Monica cries, then orders another pitcher.
With a start, Yolanda realizes she’ll need to give her notice soon. She hates the thought of letting Monica down. Monica will need to start looking into hiring a new assistant. Yolanda herself will probably have to train her replacement.
Between sets, while the boy and girl guzzle beer, bottles dangling with careful casualness from between their fingers as they swipe their sweaty foreheads, the stereo system plays songs Yolanda knows: Johnny Cash, Doc Watson, Guy Clark, Hank Williams.
When “Honky Tonk Blues” comes on, a fat man in worn jeans and cowboy boots gets up and, in the tight space between the stage and the tables, begins to dance a one-man two-step, arms out, inviting an invisible partner. He’s acne-scarred with a pitted, bulbous nose. Long, curling eyebrows, full, feminine lips, jowls as dangling and red as wattles on a chicken. He is, Yolanda thinks, the ugliest man she’s ever seen.
“He’s good,” says Monica, and indeed, the man is light on his feet.
The women watch, laughing. He winks and smiles; he is performing, hips swaying, and then he’s dancing with easy steps toward their table. His eyes are on Yolanda.
“Dance with me,” the man says, extending his hand.
Yolanda waves him away. “Oh, no, I’m not dancing.”
“Not yet you aren’t, but just wait five seconds. Five, four, three—” He pulls her onto her feet while behind her Monica and the girls call “Go! Go!”
“There’s not even a dance floor,” Yolanda protests. She is drunk on the few sips of her margarita, laughing. She feels full of meat and tequila. He spins her skillfully, eyes on her all the while, and she realizes, with a shock, that despite her scrawniness, there’s still something in her that he’s attracted to. He really is very ugly—round and short as a toad, with odd patchy muttonchops and sweat glazing his bald pink head. His eyes, though, are brown and kind and she thinks of the knowing sad eyes of some large gentle creature: a gorilla, a horse, a Saint Bernard. Yolanda must have thought he’d smell bad, because she’s surprised by the pleasant muted scent of soap. She moves her face closer. Under her palm, his shoulder in its polo shirt is humid and comforting.
Yolanda isn’t a terrific dancer, but tonight she lands on exactly the right foot. She remembers something a man once told her when she was out dancing twenty years ago: “If I make a mistake it’s my fault, and if you make a mistake, well, that’s my fault, too.” This is how she feels in the man’s expert arms, like nothing is expected of her but being.
When the music slows for Nanci Griffith’s recording of “Speed of the Sound of Loneliness,” Yolanda pulls away. “Thank you. That was fun.”
But the man’s hand remains gently at her waist. “One more.”
“Okay.” Yolanda isn’t even sure she hears herself. He holds her lightly at a respectful distance, his belly just grazing hers, and she feels herself ease against him. What in the world’s come over you? Nanci sings.
He spins her smoothly, draws her back in, and there, over his shoulder, at a table alone, is Anthony. He watches Yolanda in the arms of this man, tapping one finger on the table, his cuffs short at his wrists. Yolanda falters, but her partner doesn’t let her fall behind. Anthony smiles, but his eyes are sad. This time she feels no fear. Come dance, she thinks. He shakes his head.