I Know It's Only Rock and Roll

She dances with the person that is closest. It's a guy from Vance Refrigeration.

He doesn't mind that she dances like a middle schooler, and she doesn't mind that his hair is silly.

Dancing is too much fun, and lets her release her spirit. And everyone dancing around her... It's a wonderful thing.

And then he's dancing next to her, and she turns, smiling. So now they're dancing together. He's not a very good dancer either, and she laughs with joy. She doesn't even like this song, but he's very enthusiastic, and she doesn't feel like not dancing.

It's the best time she can remember having in a long while.

***

She's never been to a company picnic before, and she's never played volleyball outside high school P.E. It's nerve-wracking because she knows she's not very good, and there are raised voices, but she tries her best.

And in the final match, she even scores a point! But in the end, they lose, and she's a little disappointed, but then he puts his arm around her shoulders in friendly consolation.

"You did really well. We'll get 'em next year."

She leans closer, putting her arm around his waist--a move that is both friendly and too intimate--and whispers, "I'm not very good at volleyball. I hope nobody's mad at me."

He shakes his head. "You did your best. That's what matters."

Then she hears it, and her eyes widen with excitement. There's music on the opposite side of the field, and without a word, she walks to it, her arm still around his waist.

He is helpless to do anything but follow.

It turns out it's just a radio playing loudly by the picnic tables and grills, but it's lively music. People are standing around eating, chatting, and tapping their feet. Not quite as good as Cafe Disco, but she's not that picky; any decent excuse to dance her pathetic dances made all the better with a partner that shares her enthusiasm.

Her arm slides from around his waist, her hand grasping first his elbow, then down to his hand to pull him next to the booming radio. She's a little tentative at first; the grass isn't very good for dancing. When he smiles and starts moving with her, she gets a little more animated. Maybe there are people watching, but she doesn't look their way; it's just the two of them dancing, until Kelly shows up.

With a squeal of delight, she starts dancing too, her gold sneakers flashing in the bright sunshine.

The three of them dancing with abandon on this beautiful day in late spring is enough to get others doing more than simply tapping their feet.

She exchanges a grin with Kelly, and they share an unspoken plan through only their eyes. The laughter can't be helped as she and Kelly start dancing provocatively close to him, and his eyes widen comically. But its all in good fun, and is the highlight of her day so far, even beyond scoring a point in the game.

"Ladies!" His voice cracks slightly. "We're quite the wild ones today." And he laughs nervously even while his arms loop gently around the two of them.

Instead of dancing like they're at a company picnic, in what is usually a grassy field, they're dancing like they're at a nightclub. She's horribly embarrassed, but thrilled by it too. Kelly is so outgoing, unafraid of what other people might think, and dances so close to him, he blushes furiously.

Watching, she is blushing too, but she's still thrilled. It's all just so crazy, she can hardly believe it's actually happening. This is all more like a dream than a company picnic.

"Oh my god that was so much fun!" Kelly says, and leans up to give him a peck on the cheek. Then she skips away like she wasn't just grinding on him in broad daylight in front of a large group of people.

He watches her, his eyes wide, and coughs. "That was interesting."

"She's so friendly," is the only thing she can think to say. She likes Kelly, and doesn't want to sound catty.

"She sure is." But then he's dancing with her again, with his goofy arm waving and exaggerated shoulder shrugging, and the sexy dancing is forgotten.

Mostly.

It's hot, she's sweating, and he looks to be winded as well. It's all from the sun and dancing she tells herself.

***

Lemonade and the end of the company picnic brought them here. Live music and dancing, and they stay out of the crowd for the most part because they use a lot of room when they dance, especially together. It's so loud she can't hear herself think, and she whoops and yells just like everyone else. For the first time in a while, she feels alive in Scranton.

Then the music slows, and most people sit except for several couples; she grabs his hand. She leans into him without thinking, just feeling the life course through her. Her arms go around him, and he returns the gesture. Even though her heart is rapidly pounding in her chest, her body relaxes. It wouldn't be bad to dance like his all night, even with him humming in her ear.

They only can last another half hour before they remove themselves from the dancing crowd and find a table. Exhaustion is gnawing at her from the feet up, and even he looks like his impossible energy reservoir has run out. As they're sipping water (hers with lemon and his without), she takes a napkin and wipes the sweat from her forehead. Impulsively she leans forward so he can hear her over the music. "Do you want to get out of here?"

He leans in as well, and they're almost nose to nose. "Sure."

***

It is the gentlemanly thing to do to follow her home to make sure she arrives safely, and then escort her to her door. "All kinds of weirdos around here," he says, smiling and rocking back on his heels as she unlocks her door.

"I know." And then her door is open, and it's dark inside, and they are both looking at one another awkwardly. They're still in their Dunder Mifflin shirts and shorts, and what a peculiar sight they must have been. "Do you want to come in, for some water or something?" she asks, not thinking too far ahead of herself.

His smile is gentle and a little unsure, but he nods. "That'd be great."

It's small, but she's alone, and she doesn't need more. Two glasses, ice, and water, and they're standing in her kitchen, under a flickering fluorescent light, drinking. "I had a really good time today," she ventures finally.

"Yeah, me too. You're a really good dancer."

Shaking her head, she blushes. "You're a lot better than me. I don't know any moves."

"Well." It's a brief moment of hesitation. "I could teach you some. If you want." And he smiles, big, goofy, genuine.

Of course she smiles back. "OK." She heads back into her living room and fires up the stereo. It's small, but serviceable, and has an off-brand music player hooked in through the mini-plug. Immediately something peppy and bubble gummy starts playing, and she quickly changes the song. "That's what I exercise to."

Before he can comment on any of the songs she listens to for a beat or two, she's breezed through at least twenty. And finally she picks something out. It's got a heavy, driving bass and is low on lyrics, but it's aggressive in a way he would never picture her. Not that he had ever pictured her like this either, waiting for him to show her how to dance.

He feels ridiculous, but does his best as she watches attentively, mimicking him at times. And in no time at all, the song is over, and she claps.

"That was great!"

"Well..." There is nothing he has to say to her praise.

And then the next song is starting, but this is slower, with simple guitar chords and gentle vocals. "Here, let's try more" she suggests, and starts moving, dancing in slow motion to match the song's tempo.

She's right there in front of him, and he has to dance with her, feeling especially awkward, but hypnotized by her heavy-lidded eyes. Something about this tempo has turned his silly dance moves into a rhythmic, fluid weaving around him. "That's very..." He clears his throat.

Suddenly the music changes. Same song, just faster, stronger, and her dancing changes with it.

It's not something he dances to. It's not... kinetic enough; it doesn't have that groove to it. He likes it as music, just not as dancing music.

"Why aren't you dancing?" she asks without stopping.

With a guilty shrug, he answers, "It's not really music I can dance to."

"But it's rock and roll!"

Sing and play it, yes, but dance... He shakes his head, though he wishes he could find the rhythm she has and dance with her.

However, without question, she goes to change the song.

He's beginning to think there is another dance going on between them, and as tired as he is, he doesn't want to stop. And it all comes together when the next song that starts up is something slow, a little melancholy, and she doesn't hesitate to embrace him. Just for an instant he holds his breath as her arms encircle him, then lets it out gently as he holds her.

The song eventually comes to an end, as they always do, and the next starts playing, but they don't separate, don't change the dance at all.

"This is rock and roll," she whispers finally.

"I know."

"This isn't how you dance to rock and roll normally."

"I know, but I like it."

"Me too."

End

Andy, You're a Star

He knows of only one way to dress: snappy.

And appropriate. His time at Cornell had taught him how to dress appropriately, because people dressed inappropriately often had bad things happen to them.

(wedgies, publicly posted pictures, taped to the ceiling, locked outside naked, police called, parents called)

He doesn't go so far as to wear a tie, since those are for formal occasions and work occasions, but everything else he wears declares that he is a gentleman. When one is out with a lady, one must present himself as a gentleman.

But for just this time, Andy is dialing it back a notch or two. It's just a button-up and sweater-vest tonight, even though he knows the vest will be too hot later on, but it will not do to dress like a ragamuffin (except under special circumstances, like casual Fridays or company picnics).

"Appearance," he says quietly as he looks in the mirror and straightens his collar. "Appearance is the first thing a woman sees." And so it is the most important thing. Deeming his collar is in good position, he gathers his things for the evening.

It's not a lot; he's not one of those greasy haired, narcissistic Syracuse fellows. It's something of a disservice to bother comparing a Big East team to the far superior Big Red, but he's had run-ins with Syracuse guys before. They are not a friendly bunch.

Cornell. Ever heard of it?

You're a faggot.

No, not friendly at all.

But there's his phone, his keys, his wallet, folded wad of small bills. Andy is as ready as he'll ever be. It's been a while since he's been on a date that the woman agreed to so readily. As he's about to put his wallet in his pocket, he pauses.

His eyes linger on the drawer of the nightstand. One can never be too prepared, right?



She smiles brightly at him. "Hi!"

He gives her a half bow, then holds out his arm. "Shall we remove ourselves to dinner?" Then he kicks himself; he is supposed to be holding back.

But without a second word, she puts her arm through his.

Things are going better than expected already! But he's still a little disappointed he didn't get her flowers like he first thought about.

"Did you have someplace in mind already?" she asks as they walk to his car (washed earlier, with a new air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror).

Here is the first test, not that he is testing her. It's more of a 'hold his breath and hope it's not going to be a huge chore to find a place to eat something that will actually fill his stomach' quiz. "Farley's. Have you heard of it?"

But dinner is a quiet affair. She doesn't eat much, three quarters of her barbecued chicken, but he doesn't hold it against her because she tried his New York strip. Any lady that can appreciate steak is A-OK in his book.

He holds himself to one glass of beer (in a glass, not a bottle) because he's driving, and he can't really afford any more traffic stops; he thinks those road rage citations are probably still hanging over his head.

There's very little talking, and before he is ready for it, they're leaving, but her arm is through his again as they return to his car. It brings a hint of blush to his cheeks, though he's not totally sure why. "So have you ever heard of Cornell?" he asks, and feels immediately embarrassed for such an irrelevant question at the moment.

"Sure."

"Ah." He smiles, but has nothing else to say about it. "I went to Cornell." Maybe he does. "Wouldn't go anywhere else if I had the chance. My family is from a long line of WASPs."

"Oh. I don't mind bees, but I don't really like wasps," she says, sounding just the tiniest bit concerned.

"That's not what..." He shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowing. "That's not the kind of wasp I'm talking about." The frustration bubbles up, all charity about Cornell and steak forgotten.

Dial it back a notch

"It's not important," he says quickly, and in the long run he knows it's not.

"When I was little, the back porch had wasp nests all along the eves."

"Did you get stung?"

"No, but I was always scared I might."

Now he can't help but exhale in frustration. How did they get to this point, talking about wasps? It's completely meaningless, pathetic small talk. No, it's less than small talk. It's the type of talk you exchange when you don't want to speak to the other person. "Hey," he says brightly, flipping his entire demeanor in an instant, "I thought we could go back to that same place."

And she nods enthusiastically. "They had good music."


She is drinking, not heavily, but enough to make her very bubbly, very happy, very flirtatious. Luckily she keeps her attention on him, or he might have to defend her honor, and he really doesn't want to do that. He's not a fighter, not really. Some might say otherwise, but they'd be wrong, and then he'd have to defend his own honor, which would defeat the purpose of it in the first place.

Defending one's honor is very complicated.

He can't think about it anyway, because she is tugging on his hand, pulling him away from the table and to the dance floor. He can't help but wonder if this will be a repeat of last time.

With luck, he hopes.


The vest is long abandoned, and his shirt is open three buttons down. There are some other guys there he considers excellent dancers, so observes, and now mimics. It's invigorating to be dancing so close while so... physically. It's darn near PG-13 rated, and quickly ramping up as the evening turns into night.

She continues to drink, nothing heavy, and is at a state of inebriation he hasn't seen her in (he's been there before, and it has never lead to anything good, but he's never been that way while dancing). It's something brightly colored here, something fruity there, and she smells of alcohol, but still smiles and dances with him.

It seems like this dance might never end. Until the music finally does ends, and the DJ is saying something which he can't understand at all; it's all crackly garbage as he talks with his mouth too close to the microphone.

Then that doesn't even matter, though he's still puzzling it out, because she laughs and throws her arms around his neck.

"Let's dance some more!" she yells as if the music is still playing, then plants her lips against his.

For one long moment he's surprised, and a little concerned. If it's the alcohol, he knows he should stop it right this instance. But then it gets complicated, because her hand threads through his hair and the other moves to his back. It's much more than a drunken kiss now, because she's got her chest pushed up against his, and one leg maneuvered between his own so that her thigh is rubbing him in places he doesn't discuss in mixed company in public places.

He knows all these things, but the kiss ends before he can really consider them.

"I'm ready to go," she whispers this time, her hand still cradling the back of his head.

To deny her right now would make him a fool. Yes, he's had his share of drunken kisses, but that one was more. It wasn't all wet and sloppy, and her eyes were bright, not hazy or confused. That kiss with him was totally on purpose. Instead of speaking, because he's fairly sure his voice will crack (something he was always made fun of for in school), he simply disentangles himself from her, gathers their things, and makes for the exit.

In the car, he starts it, and has to ask, "Should we go to--"

"Take me home."

Which, in other circumstances he would consider a deal-breaker, but with her hand on his thigh, he can barely keep from driving at dangerous speeds. It doesn't matter because her hand creeps higher on his leg, and he almost gets them into an accident anyway.

He's fooled around in a car, but never while he was actually driving. Now he knows it's just not a good idea. However, it does make him wonder if it's wise to go inside with her; it's very obvious what she's got in mind, and he's getting doubts again.

Those doubts stay with him, hang over him like a cloud, until they arrive at her apartment, and she says, "Come inside."

And he nearly does, because she's crawling into his lap to kiss him again, and he's never ever known a woman this eager to kiss him.


It's a different kind of dance, one that's all about emotion and feelings and heat. Very similar to how he dances anyway, but this time with a partner that knows all his moves. It's interesting to note (which he doesn't do in the middle of it because it would just kill the mood) that it's not much like the two times with Angela. Just an interesting note, nothing more, because he has much better things to concentrate on.