For the First Saturday Writers

He watched the woman out of the corner of his eye. He thought she was moving across the dance floor, table by table. Each time she was one table closer. She would lean over and whisper to the occupants of each table. The people would sneak a glance at him and nod to the woman . At least he thought that was what he was seeing. He couldn’t be sure because twice she had moved farther away.

He turned slightly and looked at the band stand. The band members were nowhere to be seen. He sipped on his beer and wondered how long intermission would last.

He sensed movement from his peripheral vision. He turned his head and looked. She was a table closer. This time she was sitting facing him while the couple were sitting at a right angle to his table. The woman was talking to the other woman and nodding her head the whole time.

He wished he could read lips. What was she saying? Was she talking about him? She could be talking about something else and his mind was play tricks.

The other woman turned slowly and stared for two seconds. She rubbed her chin. A faint smile appeared. She turned back to the woman and began talking and nodding.

What should he do? Should he go to another table at the end of the dance hall. Was she really talking about him? People were moving around him. He hurriedly looked at the dance floor. The band was returning and stepping up on the small raised band stand. The tall fiddler was waving his bow at the guitar player.

She moved closer. She was sitting at the very next table, only six feet away. He leaned slightly in her direction hoping to hear her conversation. He grimaced and shut his eyes for an instant. The drums and guitars were drowning out any chance of eavesdropping.

Could she be the one who was suppose to contact him. His mind went back to his contact’s description. Tall, long blonde hair, dark eyes and would be wearing a green sweater. He stole another glance. He thought she was tall, but impossible to tell. Besides, just tall doesn’t mean anything unless a number for tallness is given. This woman’s hair was light brown but not a blonde, at least not to him. Her eyes were dark, but fifty percent of the women in here had dark eyes.

He looked at her sweater. It was mostly green but it also had small yellow triangles. What did that mean? Was she actually his contact? He was very apprehensive. His superiors had said his contact was dangerous. She would be ruthless if she thought something was wrong or just not quite right.

The woman was standing looking at his table. She walked toward him letting her hand trail over the other woman’s shoulders. He steeled himself, muscles tense and mind ready. The woman stopped at his table, placed both hands on the edge and leaned over. Her long brown hair dangled around her slender neck and onto the green sweater.
“Can you do the Turkey Trot?”

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