The room is dark. The stove light seeps through the crack in the door. You are in his arms. Held tight. You sway. Back and forth. Right and left. Slowly. This is not a rumba. This is not a foxtrot. This is not a waltz. This is the grind. Plain. Simple. Sexy. The same one your best girlfriend Yvette taught you in junior high. This is not junior high. He is not your best girlfriend. Far from it. Oh so.
You feel the ash floor underneath your feet. You kicked off your shoes long ago. Your stockings make no sound as you move. The taffeta of your full skirt rustles. You do not hear. You don't. You are lost in the music. You hear only Sam and his band. It might be one o'clock and it might be three. Time don't mean that much to me. I ain't felt this good since I don't know when and I might not feel this good again.
Your hand is strong in his. Firm. Equal. You can do this all night. All night. Keep those Sam Cooke records playing. Yeah.