You'd recognized him the first time you'd met. Just vaguely. Maybe from... the news? TV? You still weren't sure.

What you did know was his name. Art. You also knew Art was tall. He was cute, he smelled good, and the first night you'd danced together, he kept himself very respectful. Most importantly, he was single. You think he said something about being divorced one night... you weren't entirely sure.

That was about all you knew, but maybe that was all you needed to know about a guy you would miraculously run into and share a few danced with at the club every weekend. Maybe. Maybe if you hadn't been wanting to do more than just dance with him. Less drinks and dancing, more... drinks and dinner?

Your first impression had been that he looked a little out of place, like he should've been at the store for a late night milk run or maybe getting to bed in preparation for an early golf game. He'd quickly corrected that assumption, with the way his hands had landed directly on your hips once you were on the floor together. Again, respectful, but not shy.

So it had become habit. You'd come in, he'd be waiting, and soon enough you were whisked to the floor. Tonight, you could feel something different in the way he held you. Maybe this was it. Maybe you could finally bring it up, ask for his phone number, his email, hell, his fax number. Whatever it took.

You wanted to kiss him. To know what your lipgloss would look like trailed down his neck and making a mess of his collar. But you also wanted him to take you out to dinner and tell you you look gorgeous. Gorgeous wasn't a word you heard from him under strobe lights.

So you broke from him after the song changed, weaving through the ebbing crowd to get a drink, the bar like an island providing relative stability against the pure physical force that was intoxicated bodies.

It was moments before that same hand was on your shoulder, his blue eyes softened now, perhaps thanks in part to the quieter music. "Hey, you alright?"