The first time I danced with him, he chided, “Don’t hold my fingers that tightly. It hurts when you do that.”

Ashamed, I subsequently avoided him. Not only were my burgeoning skills in lindy hop clearly inferior to his, but I was also causing him pain. This was embarrassing.

About three months later, I was dancing with an elderly man, a regular of the ballroom for over forty years. Upon learning that I was a physician, he commented, “Do you know Jonathon? He’s a flight surgeon.”

“Jonathon?” I repeated. “No… who’s Jonathon?”

“See that guy over there, wearing the shirt and tie?”

He rotated us around so I could see the man in question—and there he was, fingers still intact and functional.

“He’s a flight surgeon?” I said, surprised. I laughed to and at myself: He doesn’t look like a doctor.

“Yes; he’s in the Army.”

I still avoided him. Flight surgeons need their fingers to work.

Another three months passed. One night, while working in an emergency room, someone gently knocked on my closed door. On the other side was Jonathon.

“Hi!” I automatically greeted. He wasn’t just a flight surgeon—he was a doctor in this emergency room! I could be his consultant! Yikes!

“Hi,” he replied, politely smiling. He asked about a key. I stated that I had not seen it. He thanked me. I said good-bye.

The next time we saw each other at the ballroom, Jonathon asked me to dance. Hyperaware of the amount of pressure my hands were exerting on his, I followed his lead with my increased confidence in lindy hop. To my relief, the dance progressed uneventfully—in fact, it was actually fun. Over time, our dances degenerated into goofy antics involving impressions of Sasquatch, junior high dances, and tomatoes (don’t ask). He asked me about my residency training; I asked him about his experiences in the military. He told me about his travels to various military bases; I told him about why I started dancing.

About six months later, I walked into his emergency room a few minutes before his shift ended.

“Oh! Let me show you something—” he excitedly remarked to a nurse. My bag still slung across my back and my coat hanging over my arm, I found myself suddenly dancing with him as we demonstrated East Coast swing to the empty emergency room and the solitary nurse, who smiled at us.

“She’s an excellent resident and a great dancer,” he commented.

“He’s being kind,” I replied, embarrassed. He led me into a turn and sent me out so I could continue my way down the hallway.

Between dances at the ballroom, we discussed the current war in Iraq and its physical and mental consequences for the soldiers.

“Is there a chance you will be deployed?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Yes,” he confirmed, “though if they need me, they need me—it’s a service to my country. It’s an honor.”

I nodded. We continued to dance, saying nothing.

“Well, I hope you aren’t called because that’ll be one less lead for us follows,” I cheekily said, though we both knew that why I was using humor.

Weeks passed and I didn’t see him. I worried that he had gone overseas—or, worse, that he had gone overseas and misfortune had fallen upon him.

When I unexpectedly spied Jonathon dancing with a young lady in the far corner, I eagerly slid across the dance floor and tapped him on the shoulder as the first few bars of a new song poured out of the speakers. Upon seeing me, he smiled broadly and greeted, “Hello!”

“Hello!” I replied. “I’ve wondered where you have been—I was worried that you had been deployed.”

“Oh—I’m leaving on the 20th.”

My brows furrowed in surprise and concern.

“Leaving for…?”

“Iraq,” he nonchalantly replied, as if he was merely commenting about the weather or telling me the time. The 20th of _____? That’s not even a month away—don’t act like it’s nothing.

Crestfallen, I simply replied, “Oh.”

“But I’ll be here—we have to dance with each other before I go, okay?” he insisted.

“Yes, of course,” I replied, distracted.

We have to dance with each other? Because what if—

(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)