Read Online Ms. Taken Identity by Dan Begley - Free Book Online

Jennifer.
    “That,” she says, doing her best to build up the moment, “is Adonis.”
    Skinny and balding and pale? Adonis? Now I get the name, and it’s actually kind of funny.
    Adonis starts by welcoming the group, especially the new faces, and tells us the dance we’ll be learning tonight, and for
     the next few weeks, is salsa. Salsa, he explains, is a four-beat dance, but there’s a pause on the four, so it turns out to
     be more like a quick-quick-slow, quick-quick-slow, where the slow is held for two beats. We step it off, one-two-three-pause,
     four-five-six-pause, with the men always starting on the left foot, going forward, the ladies on the right going back. That’s
     the basic. Of course, now it’s a matter of getting the weight distributed properly, because it’s not a march, stiff legged
     and upright, but something loose and swivelly, where you send the weight out and snap it back, so we work on that. About the
     time I feel my body’s getting the hang of it, and not so badly, he puts on the music, and now we have to find the beat in
     the music,
and
step it off,
and
get our weight distributed, which overloads the circuits of a few of us and causes our feet and hips to malfunction. But
     whereas Mitch would have already stormed off the floor and knocked someone down for looking at him, Jason calmly regroups
     and eventually gets it; and then we work on posture and arm placement, pretending to dance with someone; and then we work
     on a turn; and even though there isn’t a ton of time left in class, he wants us to put it all together, steps and music and
     posture and turn, with a partner.
    Mine is a woman named Fran. Her hair is gray and permed, and she’s a bit on the heavy side, but her slacks have an elastic
     waistband to accommodate such a shape. She also has a fanny pack strapped to her middle, and I can see the cap of a water
     bottle poking out. Practical gal, this Fran. But she’s a talker, one of those nonstop kind, so while I’m trying to concentrate
     on the music and my steps and my arms, she’s going on and on about her cats, letting me know that her Persian likes to sit
     on the refrigerator, except in summer, because then she likes to lie in the tub, not with water of course, but on the cool
     porcelain, which makes sense because she doesn’t keep her house all that cool; but her tabby likes to lie on the sofa, year-round,
     but he’s always been more sociable and friendly and likes to be where she is, especially when she’s knitting, because he likes
     to play with her ball of yarn. And just about the time I’m ready to ask her if she has one of those balls of yarn in her fanny
     pack so I can stuff it in her mouth, Adonis calls out for us to change partners.
    What this means, I discover, is that the men stay in place, but the women slide one spot down the line, so that I lose my
     Fran and gain a brunette in Lucky Brand jeans. It’s a whole new set of arms and hands and feet to get used to, a different
     body type, but we muck through it, do well, in fact, then change partners again, then again, and a few more times, so that
     just before nine, I look over to my left and Marie is next on my dance card, one slot away. But Adonis stops the music, and
     I figure that’s that, the show’s over.
    “Last dance,” he calls out, and Marie, visibly relieved, swaggers my way with a big flirty smile.
    We join hands. “Fresh blood,” she purrs. “I’ve been looking forward to this all evening.”
    Great. Bradley’s sister is hitting on me. “Hope I won’t disappoint.”
    Adonis cues the music and we’re off.
    She’s one of those enthusiastic types who’s not necessarily good, but she does it with such gusto and commitment that it makes
     up for the shaky steps. She throws her weight around—and there’s a bit to be throwing around—uses her hips a lot, styles her
     arms and shoulders in poses, and if the perpetual motion machine of her body weren’t enough, she tosses