Let's Dance
"Why don't you dance, Meryl?" suggested the humanoid typhoon.
His mint-green eyes twinkled merrily at her, and his lips drew back into a smile that made her heart skip a beat. They were sitting in the Boar's Head Saloon, at the bar - but both had their backs to the bar itself, facing instead out at the open expanse of the room.
A live band was playing on a low stage in the corner of the room, and a few people were dancing half-heartedly.
"Dance?" Meryl said finally, after a pregnant pause. "Me? Vash, why don't you dance?"
The petite woman raised a dark brow at the significantly taller blonde gunman, taking a pull from the beer she'd ordered that night. (Meryl couldn't resist a good Tomas Tequila.)
Vash's smile drizzled into a pout. "I can't," he whinged, exhaling wheezily. "I'm sooooooo clumsy, Meryl, I'd knock everyone over. You should dance."
Meryl felt the effects of her fourth Tomas Tequila. Well, she wasn't a terrible dancer. The place looked like it could use some genuine energy, too. Plus, Vash probably would knock everyone over. Sliding off her barstool, Meryl landed on the ground with a click of her boots. She swept off her cape and draped it over her seat.
"Fine," she said simply. She stepped away from the bar and onto the designated dance floor.
The song was introduced with a fiddle solo. Meryl danced.
She started out slow, hands slid partially into the shallow pockets of her shirt white skirt. She stepped lazily to the beat, closing her eyes and getting the feel for the music. People milled around her, some dancing, some just making their way across the floor. She could feel Vash's eyes on her.
The solo ended, and the song truly began.
The rest of the band suddenly leapt into action with the fiddle, instantly sending the energy level of the song soaring. Meryl made sure to soar with it. She'd always been good at moving with music, ever since she was a little girl. Even though being with the Bernadelli Insurance Co. hampered her ability to hone her natural talent for dance, she found getting back into the groove easy.
Without missing a beat, she began to stomp to it. Her shapely little legs were but blurs as she rapidly tap-danced to the music, creating a stunning audial effect using percussion alone, a adrenaline-pumping accompaniment to an already passionate song. People stopped to look at her, but Meryl could care less. The little insurance woman was concentrating more on the rhythm.
The beat was strong and fast.
Her rapid little 3-inch pumped boots rattled and clacked on the wooden floor with expert precision; she had complete control over her feet. To the beat of the hearty guitar riff her feet flew. Her toes rat-a-tat-tatted and her heels clicked, seasoned with the occasional expertly-timed stomp to add emphasis to a particularly well-executed step.
A crowd was forming around her, the band members all leaned forward with delight at her response to their music; they played even more enthusiastically. The crescendo was coming, and Meryl kept up. The alcohol fuzzed her brain a bit, erasing any shyness she may have felt had she not had that fourth drink. She swirled her hips lazily to the beat, creating a beautiful effect. The movements of her sinuous upper body, small breasts bouncing cutely, coupled with the fierce strikes of her feet onto the polished wood beneath her, created a picture of passion.
The song met its crescendo at last, and Meryl performed the most advanced move in her repertoire; spinning, she clicked her heels together in the air (the only evidence that this was not, indeed, a completely effortless maneuver on her part was the slight frown of concentration on her face) and slammed both feet down at the exact same time - no residual thumping of the other foot hitting the ground a milisecond after the first.
The crowd of drinkers and dancers in the Boar's Head Saloon burst into delighted applause at Meryl's performance. Even the band members applauded over their instruments. Sweat trickled down the side of her cheek, and, trying to keep the triumphant smirk off of her features, she stalked over and plopped down on her bar stool next to Vash. He was smiling so broadly she thought his face might split.
She pretended to ignore him, chugging the last of her Tomas Tequila and ordering another one, suddenly very interested in the countertop. But Meryl felt the Stampede's eyes on her, and finally she reluctantly peeled her gaze from a beer stain on the countertop and met his.
"What?" she said defensively.
Vash's tone was so low and sultry when he next spoke that something deep in Meryl's gut tightened excitedly. It was his real voice - no goofing off, no loud guffaws and goofy lilting in French. "Well, Meryl, you never cease to surprise me."
Meryl felt a blush creep across her face.
FIN