Fires of War

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“Dance?”

The blonde took a step backward, clutching at the collar of her blouse as if it had been wide open.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Come on. You look like you could use a dance.” Bob Ferguson gestured to the side of the open piazza, where a small jazz band was playing. “They’re playing our song.”

“This isn’t dance music,” said the woman stiffly, “and you’re very forward.”

“Usually I’m not,” Ferguson turned to the woman’s companion and pleaded his case, “but I’m here on holiday. Tell your friend she should dance with me.”

“I don’t know.”

Ferguson laughed and turned back to the blonde. “I’m not going to bite. You’re British, right?”

“I am from Sweden.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“You’re Irish?”

“As sure as the sun rises.” He stuck out his hand. “Dance?”

The woman didn’t take his hand.

“How about you?” Ferguson asked, turning to the other woman.

“I’m Greek.”

“No, I meant, would you dance?”

Thera Majed hesitated but only for a moment. Then, shrugging to her companion, she stepped over to Ferguson, who immediately put his hand on her hip and waltzed her into the open space near the tables.

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