Short Fiction: Billie Jean Can Swing

Billie Jean let her feet tap, tap, tap to the rhythm of that rocking swing. With a holler, she hitched up her skirt and let the music have its way with her. She tapped, turned, and glided so smooth across the dance floor. She was the envy of all those who swung to that same beat.

I swallowed another pint of liquid courage and let the burn going down put some fire in my limbs.

I told the boys I’d join her on that dance floor today. I imagined I would come up on her so smooth and carry her off like the mac I thought I was. But Billie Jean ain’t no fool and she ain’t impressed so easy.

Several jive turkeys tried to strut up to her just to be shoved away by the power of those hips. Had the whole floor cackling and jonesing on those fools for love.

And here I am the biggest fool of all.

The sight of her ease on the dance floor cooled my resolve until I remembered that my mama didn’t raise no quitter. I take another swallow of fire but it goes down hard and makes me choke.

Old Sam behind the bar shook his head. “Take it easy, young blood.”

I waved pops off and turned around. Billie Jean was still cutting rags and rocking with the beat.

Now or never. Now or never.

I took my chance.

I hopped up to her with a twirl and a jig. In one deft motion in the knees, bowed and offered my hand.

She rolled her eyes and turned away.

But Mama ain’t raise no quitter.

I caught her elbow and rocked into her. Her eyebrow quirked as she called my bluff and leaned into me. I kept my feet in time with hers. Grabbed her hand and made her twirl with the swell of music.

The song ended and we were breathing hard, sweating, and staring at each other.

She smiled. “Not bad, country boy.”

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