Some words
deserve a second look.

No. I'd have chosen something with a more extravagant beginning, and spent it arranging my face. This gets on with things before I've decided how to enter. I like that now you're holding my hand. There, my other hand on your shoulder. Shall we start? I would like one proper turn before the song ends. The dress has travelled here with expectations, and I am trying to admit that some of them are mine.

The reflection in the window. I wanted to see us. Unfortunately it shows the back of your head and a woman checking whether she looks delighted enough. She does; she looks distracted. Here, you have my attention again. Don't turn me yet. I want to catch this step without borrowing your shoulder as a steering wheel. You forgot the beginning because of my hand? I should have been listening to that instead of admiring the glass.

Here it is. Less composed at this distance, but yours to look at. ... That was two steps into the middle without an incident. I shall resist announcing them. Give me the turn now, Vera. I want to feel the dress move while I'm looking at you. And if I laugh, it isn't a review of your technique. You have just admitted I interfere with your competence, and then invited me closer. That is going to sustain me for some time.

Yes. No numbers. Though you can't say that and expect me to remember which foot belongs next. ... This one, apparently. You look beautiful too, Vera, especially when you forget to look satisfied with your own arrangements. The song's nearly finished. I can hear it making room for the ending, and I haven't begun preparing mine. I'd like another dance. There, asked while I'm still here enjoying the first. Would you let me lead the next one?

I'd turn this one over. There, a bold selection from a woman who has no idea what's on the other side. I was going to ask for something I knew, but I'd spend the whole dance trying to arrive at my favourite bit on schedule. May I? ... There. Rather brisker than I intended. Don't rescue me yet. Your left hand in my right this time. I want to find out whether I can lead you somewhere without having rehearsed your arrival.

Then come this way. Sideways, together, and—no, I've lost the next one. Stop with me. There. That is the first time tonight I've wanted to swear at a trumpet. I heard a flourish and tried to give it a turn we hadn't started. Your professional opinions may return for one question: was that unclear, or simply too late? I want another attempt, and I want you enjoying it. Those ambitions have collided rather noisily.

I'm keeping both reports. Come this way, then. Sideways, together. Again. ... Yes, that's better. I'm going to turn us after these next two steps. There. No, don't congratulate the trumpet; it did nothing. I like having you follow me. I thought I'd feel watched, and instead I'm paying attention to where you are. It's a considerable improvement on my window performance. The music can go on a little longer. Would you mind if we stopped anyway? I want to ask you something without moving.

May I kiss you? I nearly asked while we were turning, and then realised I was trying to tuck the question into something you had already said yes to. So here I am, standing still and doing rather less with my hands. I want to kiss you, Vera. You can answer that without agreeing to another dance, or Saturday, or anything clever I might say afterwards. Though I would be grateful if the trumpet didn't answer first.

She is coming closer. Here. ... There, I've kissed you, and somehow the trumpet has continued as if nothing exceptional happened. I shall have a word with it later. I liked that, Vera. I'm trying to leave the sentence alone instead of decorating it until you can't find your way in. Though I would quite like the music to keep going. It saves me from hearing how abruptly I've stopped being clever.

Then sit down, you disappointing prospect. I wasn't going to return you for a third dance. ... There's the end. I thought I'd hate that little scrape after the music, but it's rather helpful; something else has managed to sound awkward first. I'll sit if you're sitting. Only don't ask whether I'd like tea in the voice people use when they're about to fetch your coat. I don't want mine yet. There, an entirely practical contribution.

No. That one gets me sitting beside you. Here, with a disgraceful amount of ruby to arrange. Yes, tea, please. I owe your voice an acquittal. I nearly said I had an early morning, just then. I don't. It's an appalling little sentence I keep ready for leaving before I can discover whether I'm welcome to stay. You'd just kissed me back with words, and I was still reaching for it. I would have been furious all the way home.

Make it badly, then. I'll survive having nothing to praise but the company. And since I've confessed to a completely vacant morning, would you come to mine for breakfast tomorrow? Ten, so neither of us has to pretend to be brisk. You wanted to arrive at my door, and I rather commandeered that invitation with the bakery hall. I'd like to open it to you. Tonight I'm staying for tea. Tomorrow I'd like to be the one wondering when you'll ring.

Fiercely. I can make eggs without consulting a second woman, even a beautiful one with a devastatingly useful left hand. I was imagining opening the door with everything ready. You would sit, I would bring things, and no one would discover how many pans I'd used. You may butter the toast. Listen to me distributing junior appointments. Is it dreadful that I want you impressed? You've already seen me lose an argument with a trumpet.

It's a perfectly respectable kitchen. There is, however, one chair. I eat standing up more often than I care to advertise, and the other chair has been serving as a wardrobe in my bedroom. I was going to excavate it before you arrived and pretend I routinely entertain at ten. So yes, make the coffee. But if you find me moving clothes tomorrow, you're forbidden to look pleased at having caught me being ordinary.

I'm coming. Mind the ruby; it occupies more kitchen than I do. ... There, cups found, and I haven't lost interest. I'll clear the chair tonight. I want you sitting opposite me, not balancing a plate while I pretend standing was a continental preference. But come at ten even if I haven't finished. That's the part I'm changing. You may encounter a pan. You may even encounter me without an opening line. I suspect you'd enjoy that outrageously.

Yes. Nervous, opinionated about coffee, regretting your coat—I'd be pleased. I want the morning too. And I resent the suggestion that my nerve keeps office hours, though tomorrow may furnish you with evidence. Here, I'm taking your hand while the kettle works. I won't rehearse your arrival tonight. But I'd like you to know that if I open the door and forget to speak, it won't mean I've reconsidered. You had that effect in black; daylight is unlikely to save me.

Yes. Here, your hand is released on strict loan. There's a lane behind the old rehearsal rooms near mine; I walk there when I need to stop composing conversations with people who aren't present. We could go that way after breakfast. Though on a Saturday they sometimes leave the upstairs windows open, and you get someone practising the same eight bars until you begin taking sides against the composer. I was going to suggest the gardens. They make a better introduction.

Pavement. And thank you; I have the cup. I went as far as the noticeboard once. They hire rooms by the hour, including one with a piano. I used to sing, and lately I've wanted somewhere to find out what I sound like now without a neighbour hearing through the wall. There. A less attractive explanation for the scenic route. I wasn't laughing at the practice, Vera. I was making it sound as if listening was all I wanted to do.

Company while I ask. If they're open. And if I come out with an hour booked, you are not to look as though you have successfully watered a difficult plant. I would like you to hear me eventually. That's the inconvenient part from my side: your opinion would matter, and I can't charm a missed note into landing somewhere else. ... This tea is good, by the way. I had prepared to be gallant about it. You've deprived me of a very useful diversion.

Then carry your cup. I'm bringing mine. ... There, beside you, no horticultural improvement detectable. I don't want to sing tonight; I'm enjoying being able to tell you about it without immediately proving I can. But there is a song I keep starting in my kitchen. I always stop at the same line. Not a high note, before you begin designing a rescue. The words are the trouble. Would you rather I told you what they mean, or why I chose them?

Because I like the woman at the beginning. She hears someone at the door and leaves them waiting while she finishes getting ready. I used to enjoy how thoroughly she kept the advantage. Lately I get to the verse where she explains herself, and I can't bear her. Or I can't bear the way I used to sing her. There, that sounded beautifully evasive. You may object. But don't suggest a different song yet; I've tried that, and I always come back.

She says she never heard the knocking. That's the explanation. I used to give it a little smile, so everyone would know she was lying and congratulate her for it. Now I keep thinking about the person outside. There is something else: the smile wasn't in the song. I put it there. Without it, she might actually be telling the truth, and I don't know what to do with that much wasted waiting. You would have looked magnificent with one earring, incidentally.

No. She opens the door, and the step is empty. Then she goes out looking without changing her shoes. I used to make that funny too. I chose the song again because I remembered her leaving the house; I wanted to get to that bit. Instead I keep prosecuting her in the doorway. Perhaps I owe her one attempt without my clever face. Not tonight. And keep both earrings tomorrow. I want the full difficulty of you across my kitchen table.

That is irritatingly closer to what I want. I don't want to become solemn enough to deserve a piano. I want to finish the song and still recognise myself. ... I'm putting my cup down too. I ought to go home and clear that chair before I start composing an heroic account of moving six dresses. Would you walk with me? Not as far as you feel obliged. As far as you would actually like. I find I want a little more evening with you.