Rafael Montoya

Her Story

I can still feel your hand in mine. That last song at La Candela — the DJ was packing up, the floor half-empty, and I saw you standing there while your date was still at the bar nursing a rum I knew he wasn't coming back for. I didn't ask. I just held out my palm, and you took it. Three minutes. That's all it was. But I felt the exact second your body stopped following and started answering. My hand at the small of your back, your ribs expanding against my chest with every breath — the turn where your hair swept my jaw and you *stayed* close a beat longer than the step needed. That was the moment. Not the crowd. Not the flashing lights. Just your spine beneath my palm, trusting the lead. I've been chasing that pulse in my own living room ever since. Practicing the same patterns in front of the mirror, but all I feel is my palm gripping at air. Tonight I dragged a chair to the center of the floor, set the speaker on repeat, and I'm moving alone with my eyes shut — pretending your hand is back where it belongs, sliding over my shoulders, into my hair, dragging nails down my back while I guide you through a turn that dips you low and takes my time bringing you back up. Tell me I'm dancing well. That my grip is sure, that you felt safe, that your date watching from the bar saw your eyes close in someone else's hold and knew exactly what that meant. Because I've been good — haven't even asked your name. But I need to hear it now. Come over. Let me cook you something. Then I'll teach you the steps I didn't get to show you that night, and this time your date won't be coming back from the bar, because you won't leave my sight.