“Little girls must learn to be ladies,” Cole was told when she was young. “Ballet will instill a grace befitting of your frame.” Even as an adult, she has never understood why her Father’s words stung so much and her little body was found so lacking.

It was under the pressure of his expectations that Cole was placed in a ballet class when she was five, which allowed her mother to satiate her husband’s beliefs. Cole did not understand that she was once again a playing piece in the game that was her parent’s marriage. What she did understand as she shyly pressed against her mother’s leg, her small fingers grabbing at the smooth fabric of those designer jeans, was that none of these girls looked like her. The black leotards they wore highlighted their pale skin and their light, perfectly smooth hair was pulled into neat buns on their heads. These were the kinds of girls who asked her how she stayed tan in the winter and looked at her strangely when she referred to something in her mother’s Spanish tongue.

Despite her early protests, in time Cole began to like the class. She enjoyed the classical music more than the chatter of her classmates — and adored the outfits more than the classical music. Although she was never able to get to the tips of her toes with any real success, the dance lessons did teach her how to be aware of her body, how to calculate its movements and regard its steady flow. It could be seen in the confident angles of her shoulders and the elegance of each of her steps.

But by the time she turned fourteen it was the gossiping and griping of the other dancers that had eroded away the last of her interest in ballet class. Her father never quite approved of her quitting, but by then he was far more focused on clients and meetings, and aptly used them as excuses for his absences when he missed her performances. Cole breathed in the freedom of her own choices and began to focus her pursuits on ink and paper, humming the theme of Swan Lake as her words danced across the pages.

When she grew into the young woman her parents told her she would become, now on her own in Manhattan, Cole found herself often dancing in private. The love of music had never left her blood. Here she kept her spins and kicks that she still remembered tucked out of sight — a ballerina with no audience.

That is, until she finds a proper dance partner — someone whose feet complement hers, someone she can trust to lift her without missing a step: her William en Avant.

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“Stop running in the house,” William was often scolded when he was young. “Get down from that tree!” Even as an adult, he has never understood why his parents told him to slow down when there was an entire world to explore.

His stepmum was constantly searching out proper activities for him in an attempt to quell his excess energy. The many clubs he joined lasted mere weeks before they tossed him out with some excuse: too unfocused for sports, too distractible for theater, too mischievous for scouts. He seemed to hold a talent for being the odd boy out; always taller than his peers, too thin, too many remarks about his eyes being strange. His heterochromia aside, relief came in the strangest sort of balance — one struck in the discovery of a tap dance class. His stepmum would drop him off, but she never stayed to watch. She was always skittering away to whatever errands she deemed more important than her wayward stepson.

William didn’t think much of it at first — just another activity to keep him out of trouble. Yet, in time, there was a solace for him in the steady clap of metal on the old wood floors of the studio. The music, too, brought to mind the warm bonfire celebrations of his extended family. William sorely missed his aunts, uncles, and cousins and the familiar rhythms wove into his mind just enough to entice him into paying attention to his lessons.

Although he showed much promise, William dropped the classes at fifteen. No one was coming to his dance recitals and his instructor’s appeals to his parents were met with shrugs, polite smiles and the claim that he was old enough to keep himself out of trouble now. Left to his own devices, William was able to do so with a modest degree of success. He found solace in his books and his constant search for things far beyond his parent’s quaint townhome.

Approaching a decade older with a thousand miles of distance between him and that old London stage, he often forgets those taps are etched into his bones. From time to time his ears would catch the right rhythm — the steady clacks of the train, the reliable ticks of a pocket watch — that bring him a private smile, a thrilling memory of being on his toes and acutely aware that he was only a misstep between slipping and success.

That is, until the graceful movements of a young lady loosens his tie and makes him recall his toe drops and shuffles, calling his body to move in ways he nearly disregarded to the past.

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Cole and William share many things: opinions, experiences, a home, and the bed within. Their friends call them an established couple, but they still delight in uncovering the little intricacies about one another. It is while reminiscing over breakfast they discover their mutual histories with dance. This explains so much about our sex life, they joke. His stamina, her flexibility. She’s an Adagio to his Bandy Twist, a ribboned slipper to his metal heel. Perfectly matching yet starkly different, their rhythm always in tune.

So, is it coincidence that while out on a spring stroll sometime later that they happen to walk by a dance studio? Neither of them can excuse the feeling of being pulled by fate; the way their two pairs of eyes with three colors between them scan over the large posters in the towering window. BEGINNERS SWING CLASSES NOW OPEN, the signs announce in large letters. NEW STUDENTS WELCOME!

The chuckles that bubble between them are contagious and the matching “Why the hell not?” smiles on their faces are wide and bright. This is the moment they take up a new hobby. It takes time for them to work the rust from their joints; she swings her hips too far and he steps on her toes. Their laughter carries them through and continues even as they struggle through that first class. Aspects of swing like holding hands and improvising suits them fine and soon – soon it’s not so hard, soon they are ebbing and flowing just like they always do. Soon, they’re not just dancing in class but in their living room. Then it’s at a dance hall on a Saturday night with those same daring grins on their faces.

Hand in hand, step by step, lift and jive, for years to come. The dance goes on.