Think I Want to Twist the Plot This Time

Part 2

So she gets up, but not without first trying to entice her potential partner. Her fingers wrap around his free hand, playfully tugging. "Come on, Oppie, let's dance!" she goads, flashing him what she hopes is her most brilliant smile.

He doesn't relent, simply chuckles lowly. "I think you'll find I'm much better suited back here than stumbling out there," he says stubbornly. "And let me guess: you're also a fantastic dancer."

"Maybe not 'fantastic,' but I know how to hold a rhythm." Barbie's hand holds a little tighter, and notices that even though he's tried to reject her, he's gripping to her, too. "You'd really let a lady dance alone?"

Not like that's ever stopped her before, but she doesn't want to cause too much trouble here.

"I'm sure some other lucky man would be more than happy to dance with you." And yet he's still holding her hand.

"I don't want to dance with them. I want to dance with you." If he's going to be stubborn, then so is she. Besides, he has his gaze locked on her, when before it had no direction. So she starts moving to the music, swaying her hips, waving her free arm. He waited for her, ordered her another drink, called her "stunning" and "beguiling." He's gotta be interested—so what's holding him back?

Oppenheimer watches her move, and that finally pushes him to douse his cigarette and finish his drink. He gets up with a heavy sigh like it's a burden, but there's still that hint of a smile in his face, that wide mouth still plucking up at the corners. "You're very difficult to say 'no' to."

"You'll have fun, Oppie," Barbie assures, giving his palm a squeeze as they join the other couples on the dance floor. Again, she feels other pairs of eyes on her, on this pink blur dancing around this awkward man who can barely tap his toes. As she thought, he's not great, but he tries with a soft sway in time to the music. Barbie allows herself to just take hold of that hand again, twirl around as she feels fit. She loves the feel of her skirt floating around her knees, the grin that's plastered to her face because she hasn't danced like this without a care in the world in so long.

And he lets her. Doesn't try to lead, doesn't try at all, to be honest. But it's enough, because with each spin and shimmy, she can feel those blue eyes on nothing else but her. He loosens up, taking her hand and she's not too sure what to do with it—accidentally running into him when she twirls into his body. But she laughs, and he chuckles, and they're imperfect and everything she wants. This is still more exhilarating than a choreographed dance with the other Barbies and Kens, because it's laced in thrill of something romantic and unpredictable.

At the end of the song, he even has the courage to give her a halfhearted dip, and Barbie sighs into it, locking her eyes with his. He's so close; if she leans up even just a few inches...

The band goes into a slower song next, and Barbie's heart races as Oppenheimer pulls her upright, those fingers encircling her waist list like—no, better than she imagined. She takes in his scent, like faint cigarettes and chalk as she places her left hand delicately on his shoulder. His left hand still tangles in her right, pressed between their chests so she can feel his sturdiness, his steady breathing. There's no one person leading the other; they're simply circling slowly to the music, engrossed only in each other.

"I told you—fun, right?" she murmurs, unable to stop smiling.

"A bit of an odd definition, but it's not my worst experience dancing," he admits, and is it just her, or are his fingers closing in around her waist tighter?

"That's 'cause you barely danced at all."

"What would you call this, then?"

"Mm..." Barbie hums, trying to find the right words. "Flirting in motion?"

"I can accept that." He nods slowly. "Though out of all the patrons in this club, you chose to sit with the lonely physicist."

"I did."

"Why?"

She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, those sunken blue eyes await her answer. "I could find a million men in LA who all look the same, cookie cutter pretty. They talk big like they own the whole city." Is this even going to make sense to him? "But no one I know looks like you, or speaks like you. 'Pretty' is overrated. I'll forget someone who's 'pretty' in a second. But you..." She dares to move her hand on his shoulder up to his neck. "I'm not going to forget Robert Oppenheimer anytime soon."

"'Pretty' can be overrated if it isn't worn well," he counters, tilting his head to lean into her hand. "You wear it exceptionally well. You're an Alphonse Mucha nymph come to life."

The reference doesn't go unnoticed. Barbie has to smile at that; he finds her as enthralling as a literal work of art, free and flowing. If that's not a sign to seal the deal, then what is?

"May I kiss you?"

He chuckles at the question, and yeah, maybe it's a little too modern for these older sensibilities. She doesn't care. "You really need to ask my permission?"

Barbie shrugs, completely earnest. "Consent is really important to me."

Oppenheimer stops laughing, but he's still wearing a smile. "Then yes, Barbie, you may kiss me."

She surges to him before he's even done agreeing, finally pressing those lips she's been fantasizing about against hers. Not her first kiss, of course, but she puts passion in it, and he's right there, squeezing her hand and waist, so sturdy and sure. It's to see if she really wants to kiss him all night, and yeah—she really does. She's even smiling into it, because when he kisses back, it's everything she wants.

They've stopped dancing after the kiss, and honestly, Barbie can barely hear the music anymore. All the patrons have melted away, as have the lights, the tables, the bar... It's just the two of them, existing quietly in their own world.

"You said you were staying at The Palace," she mentions, going in for the real proposal.

"For the evening, yes," he replies, and is he a little breathless?

Barbie bites her lip, leaning into him. "Maybe... you can take me up there and we can talk some more."

He pauses, contemplating. Barbie watches him swallow thickly. "If I take you to The Palace, we're going to be doing a lot more than talking, you realize." And that's him asking for her initial consent, because to say it explicitly is too taboo for anyone else in this club to hear.

"I know," she says, and now her hand's moving from his neck to his jaw. His skin is clean, but dry, probably from all the smoking. "But a change of scenery and some privacy would be really nice."

After nodding, Oppenheimer steps back, but it's to start leading Barbie off the dance floor and outside. Their hands are still locked, exiting quickly, as wandering eyes that follow them ask how the woman clad in pink left The Dawn Club with the too-thin professor.