“You know...” He slid an arm over her knee. “Since you have
missed the past two weeks of class, I think I should teach you the samba privately.”
She had the feeling that’s not what he was going to say, but the
thought of learning the samba with him, privately, was hard to
refuse. He stood and offered a hand to help her up, then took her in his arms. “The samba is counted in 8 beats: 1-a-2, 3-a-4, 5-a-6, 7-a-8, with the even numbers getting a full count. The first two split a beat. One-a...” He demonstrated his part and then turned to show her part, and took her in his arms again.
“This would be easier with music. On not on sand.”
“We will do both in a bit. First learn the steps. Come.” Fillan
led her down to the edge of the water where the sand was packed
harder. The water washed up over their feet as they took the moves slowly, from as much distance as possible while staying in hold,
and then he sped the count and closed in. “Ball-flat, ball, ball-flat, and bounce. Samba is much about the bounce of the knees. Right.
Good. And now the whisk, the same steps, only move the right
foot behind the left and only touch the ball with it.”
Emma nearly stopped dancing when he started humming a
song, a soft slow song, music only, and he sang the beat counts
with it as though she’d forgotten. She gave him a soft grin and
focused on her steps, and on his voice, his touch, the warmish
breeze off the ocean, and the water brushing at their feet.
“You are a beautiful dancer.” He returned the grin and went
back to humming.
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