Joe turned out to be a terrible dancer. I mean, actually awful. He had some kind of rhythm, but he had no idea what to do with his arms and legs, or whether to lead or follow. And it didn't seem to bother him at all.
You would have thought that awful dancing would have put the nail in the lid of any chance of romance. It should have done. Except that I started to find it funny.
"What's wrong with you?" I asked, after he crashed into someone behind him and dragged me around so I also crashed into the other half of the couple. I was trying to scowl at him, but for some reason, my mouth kept wanting to smile.
"Aren't you enjoying it?" he asked, with a grin, and twirled me around so hard that I lost my balance and had to grab onto him.
"Of course I'm not," I said. Whilst laughing. Always a bit of a giveaway, that.
I got it under control then, but after a couple of minutes of Joe flinging us into people and apologising and pulling not-really-sorry faces at me, I wasn't even trying not to laugh any more. I was his ally in terrible-ness, and the startled, sometimes amused and sometimes really not-amused-at-all faces became something to enjoy.
I told you I was drunk.
I got to the point after about fifteen minutes of this where I was laughing so hard I couldn't breathe properly, and my eyes had started to tear up. That was bad news for my carefully applied make-up.
"Come on, stop it," I said, eventually, pulling a hand free and trying to wipe the tears away. "I'm about to cry all the prettiness away."
"Oh, you mean I'll get to see the terrible, wizened face underneath?" He squinted at me. "I think I can take it."
He tried to pull me onwards, but I resisted.
"OK, I can be less hilarious," he said, and took my hand more gently. He stepped towards me, until we were standing close, but facing each other, our bodies all but touching. And I wished I'd kept my mouth shut.
"Better?" he asked, quietly, twining the fingers of one hand gently through mine. His other arm slid around my waist, finding no resistance on the sheer silk of my dress. We were touching, now, from our thighs, right the way up to our chests. And I could feel it from my breasts to somewhere deep inside.
"Um... I don't..."
My legs and arms chose to let me down completely at this moment. While my brain was shouting at them to move, they seemed to be quite happy where they were, swaying slightly with him in time with the music.
Come on, come on, my brain said. Shrug him off and walk away.
"So what is it?" he asked me, quietly, fixing me with that gaze of his that made me feel weirdly anxious. "Are you afraid of getting hurt?"
"Why shouldn't I be?" I asked, a little aggressively. It was a shame I didn't think that one through, though. It told him a lot too much.
"Because not everyone is out to hurt you," he said.
I broke the gaze. I couldn't stand the intensity in it just then.
"Nobody means to," I muttered.
"Some people are a lot more careless than others, you know."
I hate it when people try to argue with me over all this. I'm so tired of it. Everything they say makes perfect logical sense. The problem is that none logic applies to me. None of it. And not because I'm special, or because I think people treat me in a different way, either.
But just then, I was tired of resisting, too. I was hazy with alcohol and aching to touch someone.
That isn't even true. I wasn't aching to touch someone; I was aching to touch him. It was Joe who had set up that deep need in me. It was stronger than I could ever remember it, and I should have been stronger in response. Instead of which, I rested my head against his chest, and said, "Aren't they?"
"No," he whispered, into my ear. It sent gorgeous shivers down me, the feeling of him breathing on my skin. "I'm not careless. I can never be careless."
"Why not?"
"I've learned my lesson too well," he said. Then, after a pause, "I've hurt people too much by not thinking. And I'm never going to do it again."
I pulled my head back and looked up at him, momentarily finding the strength I should have found earlier in the evening.
"Yes, you will," I said, and I pulled myself free. It was like tearing myself out of warmth into coldness. "You won't have a choice."
I felt so old as I turned away from him. So old and so tired. But my eyes were already swelling up like a child's, and spilling over.
"Helena, wait," he said. For a second, his hand tightened on mine, and I thought he was going to stop me from going. I almost wanted him to. But then he let me go.
"I'll see you soon," he called after me, as I pushed past all the swaying couples without looking back.