All you had needed was someone to practice with, and he seemed like the ideal person. You had always got on well as children, but it is years since you last saw each other, and then suddenly you bump into each other in the Fat Cat in Bangor. Of course, you have no difficulty recognising him, and you both get up from your tables at the same time, and greet each other in the middle of the bar, uttering nonsensical platitudes, but both really pleased by the surprise encounter.
It’s the days before everyone has mobile phones, and only the IT students bother with email, so you tell him where you are living, and a few days later he turns up on your doorstep with a bottle of wine. It’s strange to see him suddenly as a grown-up, with a face that creases when he smiles, and golden bristles on his square chin. You are aware that he is seeing you differently, too, and you wish you had known he was coming, because you’re wearing jeans and a t-shirt that’s a little bit too small.
The kitchen is untidy too, but all student houses have untidy kitchens. He doesn’t raise an eyebrow at the pile of saucepans or the line of grime around the sink. At least you have a corkscrew handy, and two wineglasses that don’t match, one of which is slightly chipped. You sit at the kitchen table, catching up, explaining why you chose Bangor when you could have gone further afield; you both have the same reasons. There’s already a big enough mixture of people here, without having to go to England to see the world; and it’s easy to get home for Sunday dinner.
He tells you about the trouble he’s been having with women. His girlfriend from last year has gone home to Detroit, and he’s been seeing one of the degree students who he was mentoring. The benefit of doing a PhD, he tells you, is the constant supply of would-be biochemists who find him clever and interesting. He also visits a girl at another university, every few weeks, who thinks of him as her fiancé.
Why does she think that? you ask.
He explains that it was one of those whirlwind things, where she seemed absolutely perfect for the first few weeks, and then became clingy and difficult. He thought he was in love with her, but now he has changed his mind. He just hasn’t got round to telling her.
It will be such a major trauma, he says, with a sigh.
You fill his glass up, and tell him about your own trouble. You’ve just split up with someone, because he was tending to be violent and possessive. Now you’re determined to be a free agent, not get into anything like that again. But you need a dancing partner.
Can you waltz?
I might, if you show me how.
He puts down his glass and stands up, his left arm outstretched in what he thinks is a good position for waltzing. You giggle, and rearrange his hands on your body, bumping your knees into his. He’s much taller than you, so you are face to face with the flatness of his white t-shirt, and his clean smell.
Did we dance together when we were kids? you wonder aloud.
Only to the birdie song, at family weddings.
You laugh, and try to show him how to move his feet, but he is clumsy, and trips you up. He catches you, steadying you with his hands around your waist, which feels nice. He looks down at you with his piercing blue eyes, and there is a charged stillness.
His voice is low, and his face is close to yours. Are we allowed to do this? he asks, referring to the impending kiss.
You look at him through your lashes, and blink slowly. Do you mean because you already have two girlfriends, or because we are cousins?
He smiles with bleak humour, and tells you to shut up.