You danced with her that night.
You got up the guts to walk over and ask her, stood weak-kneed, swallowed that last-second acidic taste of fear, and before tapping her on the shoulder and entering her life for what could've possibly been the first and last time in your life, noticed her friends signaling your tentative but determined approach to her, making her turn to you suddenly.
The look in her eyes, those beautiful, bewitching eyes, and as you lost your ever-reliable ability to speak confidently, another's voice filled the surrounding air and, lucky for you, the nervous, short distance between you and her waiting eyes. It was Otis' voice, describing with the same tentative, cautious, yet equally determined start you demonstrated as you walked toward her, his arms and how they wanted to hold her, and if she would let them hold her, how grateful he would be.
Exactly what you would've said, too, if she hadn't already come into your embrace and started swaying with you to the great, great song that Otis continued singing, setting the tone and tempo for your dance, fulfilling your wish that you hadn't the courage to speak just a few minutes before, creating the memory that you'd write about one day many years later, as you listened to the same song on his birthday and remembered - you danced with her that night.
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