Composure.
It wasn't something that was a choice, but rather a requirement. And it was one Oliver O'Toole took very seriously.
This adage was never more prudent than when he almost lost it.
"Would anyone like some punch? I hear the punch is very good this year. Let's get some punch."
He noted the brief emphasis he had placed on the word "punch," but it had been quite a long time since he had been overcome with the express desire to strike something with his fist. To emphasize the intended word verbally was the gentlemanly and responsible way to not only acknowledge, but civilly dispense of, the unseemly disposition.
It was immediately clear to him the situation that was causing such a foreign desire to well up inside him was, in fact, seeing Ms. McInerney dancing with another gentleman, whom he did not know, nor had he ever seen before. And to make matters worse, she had not even stopped to say hello before doing so.
Therefore, in an attempt to sooth his savage urge, he took solace in the fruit punch.
He wasn't sure what compelled him to continue watching Shane and this mysterious fellow share the dance floor. It seemed unlikely that Shane had been carrying on some kind of romantic tryst without his, Rita's or Norman's knowledge. After all, all her time in the office was spent with them. All he knew is that the longer he watched, the more urgent his desire to rectify the situation.
The only thing keeping him from acting was his internal frustration with his inability to identify exactly what about the situation so deeply troubled him.
"Turf, what a funny word…"
There it was: turf. And in it, his explanation-Of or pertaining to an area considered another's territory.
This man with no name had committed an offense against territory-his territory. That is what so deeply troubled him. And yet Oliver still had no mechanism to correct it.
And then the steps started to look familiar-too familiar.
"You know there's a champagne fountain over there if you need something a little stronger," Rita commented. It was one of the few comments to break through his distressed internal dialogue.
"One never consumes alcohol when one dances the rumba."
"You're not dancing," She replied.
What an astute observation. That was it.
"Not yet."
Oliver purposefully dispensed of his cup, entrusting it to Norman, and made his way to the dance floor to retrieve his partner.
He cleared his throat, tapping the gentleman's shoulder, and disrupting the couple, "May I cut in?"
"Oliver! Uh, Jordan, this is my boss, Oliver O'Toole," Shane introduced, as if somewhat surprised to see that he would cut in.
"Jordan Marley, a pleasure."
So he had a name.
"How do you do," Oliver replied, returning his firm handshake.
There was a brief silence. It was with Ms. McInerney that Oliver had taken issue, and it was to Ms. McInerney that he would be making his grievances known.
"Please, dance," Jordan encouraged, taking his leave. Oliver couldn't help but notice Shane smile as he left.
"He's the guy they brought in to troubleshoot the Dear Santa project," Shane explained.
While the knowledge eased his concerns a bit, Oliver needed no more explanation. He only needed to remind her who she should be dancing with-and why. He took her hand and pulled her into his arms.
"You amaze me."
"What?!" She seemed confused. "What's the matter?"
"You were dancing the dance."
"The dance? What are you talking about?"
How could she be so frustratingly oblivious to the offense she had committed? He stopped their progress.
"If you recall, Ms. McInerney, last summer I received dance lesson as a gift. And, temporarily requiring a partner, I shared them with you. So, technically, you were using my steps to dance with someone else who had not earned the rights to dance with..." he hesitated, "with the steps..."
He saw a smile break across Shane's face. He was flustered, trying to get a very important point across, and she was making him feel silly.
"And that makes all the sense in the world," Shane teased.
How could she so ignorantly dismiss him?
"Teaching one person the steps learned under the auspices of another is tantamount to that."
She laughed out loud, "I was teaching the guy a few steps. It wasn't like I was selling state secrets."
Her response made it clear that Oliver now had no other choice.
"Dip."
He had done this on at least two prior occasions. But this time the nonverbal gesture had a meaning all its own.
Did she remember now?
Remember that evening in the DLO the night before their dance showcase?
Before that, did she remember the first time they had danced together in the Mailbox Grille, each one having bared their souls over past hurts and people they loved who had left?
Did she understand that when they danced, it was a language only they shared, a territory only they occupied?
As he slowly pulled her out of the move, the look on her face, and the silence that ensued, revealed a new volume of knowledge had been bestowed upon her. What she thought of it, however, remained to be seen.
But as he continued to gently guide her across the dance floor, that didn't matter so much. He could feel his composure slowly returning. Oliver had successfully defended and protected his territory.
At least for now.