MONDAY: Do You Wanna Dance?

VALENTINES WEEK 2026
First-place Winner

BY SALLY BASMAJIAN

Copyright is held by the author.

AT NIGHT, the ward is as hushed as it’s been at home ever since Joe died. He was the music in Mary’s life, serenading her with love even during the lean years—and, from a purely financial standpoint, most of their years together were lean.

There had always been plenty of romance, though. If love, and hugs, and dancing could buy real estate, they’d have moved out of their shabby flat years ago.

Now, nurses chat softly outside Mary’s hospital room. Their voices clink like out-of-tune piano keys.

“No improvement,” one says. “We finally reached her son. He’ll be on the next flight.”

A second nurse says, “Let’s move on.” Rubber soles squeak as they walk away.

Mary’s eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Her bones ache, her muscles cramp. Deep, down inside her, though, a warm glow spreads. She has been among the most fortunate of women here on earth, and she is profoundly grateful.

***

Joe Bleaker was dancing. He shimmied his hips as he orbited the kitchen table where Mary sat adding up numbers, eyeglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose.

“Bang, bang, bang, Maria Potato,” he sang, with gusto if not accuracy, to the Gipsy Kings’ recording.

Mary finished her final calculation. She smiled as she put her pencil down. They could pay the landlord this month, and on time, too.

She arranged her glasses in their case and snapped it closed. “Feel like going to the pub? Splurge for once? Maybe even dance?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Joe attempted a spin, but his sneakers caught on the tiled floor and he almost toppled over. He saved himself by sweeping Mary into a hug, as if that’s what he’d intended in the first place. In his arms, she was a young girl again, cherished and safe. His heart knocked against her cheek with a kick drum’s insistent beat.

Mary wriggled out of his grasp and went to fetch her coat. It was a threadbare, plaid affair that had originally been a jaunty red. Maybe next year she could afford a new one.

It all depended on Joe finding work. He was a painter, specializing in exterior jobs at precariously high altitudes. He was getting older, though. Some nights, he fell asleep at dinner, slumped forward like a melting candle.

Tonight, as they walked in the crisp autumn air toward the pub, Mary slipped her hand into Joe’s. He squeezed it.

“Do you wanna dance?” Joe crooned the old Mamas & the Papas song, waggling his chin at the full moon.

“Yes, but let’s wait till we get there.” Mary grimaced at her prosaic tone. In a softer voice, she added, “I love you.”

The moon’s glow revealed the laugh lines that radiated from Joe’s eyes. He and Mary had almost reached middle age and were at the stage where dreams should be coming true. Mary’s auburn hair required occasional touch-ups to keep it looking as it had when she’d first met Joe, and she was self-conscious about her weight. Year by year, the pounds had accumulated in steady increments. Not that Joe seemed to notice or care. His blue eyes were as kind and clear as ever. They sparkled whenever she drew near.

The telltale crease between Joe’s eyebrows was always visible these days, though. No Bleaker offspring had appeared in their lives, and not for lack of trying. Mary fretted it was likely too late, and one day soon she’d have to give up hope of having the child she and Joe dreamed of, night after night. She kept her worries to herself, fearing Joe would mourn the loss of a potential baby almost as much as he would the real thing.

When they arrived at the pub, Joe opened the door for Mary with a flourish, sweeping his free hand in a grand gesture.

Mary laughed. “How gallant of you!”

“My pleasure, darlin’,” he said, escorting her into the warm, noisy space.

Joe’s ear-to-ear grin lifted Mary’s spirits. He began to bounce to a thumping bass drum beat and tugged her by her hand, giving her no time to do anything but throw her coat and purse onto a vacant barstool. Together, they burrowed their way onto the crowded dance floor.

The band was playing something from the early days of rock ‘n roll. Mary attempted a modest twist. Joe winked at her and launched into a raucous, hip-swivelling display. His feet grooved out a pattern; his shoulders swerved in a down-and-dirty response. Mary laughed when other couples began to step back and watch his performance, their mouths agape.

Joe and Mary danced for four more songs. No matter the musical style, Mary maintained her shy, two-step form, but Joe morphed himself with total commitment from greaser to disco king to punk rocker. After each number, their fellow dancers cheered.

When the band took a break, Mary trudged over to the barstool she’d claimed earlier. Maybe Joe could keep going all night, but she was out of breath.

“You’re a goddess, my love.” Joe kissed her cheek. “Beer?”

“Absolutely, my dancing fool.” Mary took some paper napkins from a dispenser and patted his overheated forehead. Perspiration continued to bead up and sluice down his face. He’d never looked more handsome.

When the bartender arrived, Mary and Joe ordered the house lager. Mary paid in cash. Doing some rapid calculating, she added a generous tip.

“To a fantastic night out,” Mary said, clinking her glass together with Joe’s.

“And to you, my wonderful wife and forever dancing partner.”

Joe wrapped an arm around Mary; she leaned into him and inhaled. He smelled of healthy sweat and no-name fabric softener. She rolled her head against her husband’s solid shoulder and smiled through sudden tears.

After 15 minutes, the band members began to drift back. Joe glanced at Mary. She was mid-swallow when a young woman approached them. The newcomer wore skin-tight jeans, a diaphanous, pastel top of many layers, and some patent leather boots that looked as though they were made for dancing.

“Hi, I’m Heather.” She didn’t break eye contact with Joe. “You have amazing moves. Can I steal you from your wife for one song?”

Mary gave Joe a gentle push toward Heather. The more he danced, the happier he’d be, and her feet were killing her.

The band struck up a current hit. It was silly and irresistibly danceable. Joe and Heather moved to its beat as though they’d always been partners. He was more skilled, but Heather had style, and she knew more tricks than Mary had ever mastered.

Joe and Heather danced one number, then another. When the band started playing a third tune, a catchy Sixties pop song, they kept going.

An older, male bartender looked at Mary. He leaned across the counter, concern in his eyes.

“You OK, dear?”

“Yes, fine, thanks.” Mary polished off the last few drops of her beer. 

“You may want to reclaim him.”

“Pardon me?”

“You know. Your husband. Dancing with that gorgeous girl.”

“Oh, it’s OK. He’s just having fun,” Mary said.

The bartender frowned but moved away without further comment. Mary shrugged. People should stay in their own lane.

Joe and Heather continued to cycle through the top hits of multiple decades. Their hips undulated, and their feet flew. Mary ordered another beer, tipped well, and continued to sip and watch. Joe’s grin was infectious, and she beamed at him, even though he was lost in rhythm and movement.

At the end of the set, Joe’s eyes regained their focus. He shook Heather’s hand and thanked her. Heather’s posture sagged as she moved away, disappearing into the crowd.

Mary asked the bartender for a glass of water. As Joe approached, she handed it to him. He drank it in four gulps and then gave Mary a prolonged kiss on the lips. She felt a sizzling sensation down to her toes. It was time to go.

Twenty minutes later, they were home. Joe made his way to the bedroom and pulled down the rickety blinds. Mary tossed her faded red jacket and the rest of her clothes on the floor and helped Joe remove his. Within seconds, they were naked and grappling and panting like teenagers. Joe was as passionate and caring as he’d been when they’d first connected, and Mary responded with equal energy and love.

For once, there was no music. They didn’t require a soundtrack. This wasn’t a dance.

Months passed. Mary and Joe continued the comfortable rhythm of their lives.

As they worked, Joe sang, “All you need is love.”

Mary agreed. Although, a bigger place to live would be great. A new jacket would be awfully nice, too. But she never expressed these thoughts.

Things didn’t improve financially. For a while, Joe wasn’t able to get as many jobs as before. Mary, too, couldn’t work for a period of time during a complicated pregnancy and for months after she gave birth to their son. Apparently, there’d been magic in the air that night, or at least good, healthy lust and rock ’n ’roll-charged sperm.

Joe and Mary named their baby Michael, and he slept in a second-hand crib beside their bed. The baby’s early moves seemed promising. Joe swore Michael had inherited excellent dancing genes and he’d be moonwalking soon.

“I wanna rock with you,” Joe sang to the crying infant, jiggling him up and down in a lulling rhythm until Michael drifted off to sleep. In delicate slow motion, Joe tucked his son into the old crib.

Mary tiptoed over and touched her hand first to Joe’s cheek and then to Michael’s. She loved her dancing boys. One day, perhaps, they’d have a proper home, new clothes, and money to burn. For now, they had each other, and music, and that was more than enough.

***

Michael Bleaker sits by his mother’s bedside. He has flown all night cross-country to be with her and now weeps with exhaustion and guilt. Why hadn’t he known she was ill? How could he have allowed his work to divert him from visiting her for so long?

Michael remembers the happiness and music of his childhood. He pictures his parents dancing in their small kitchen, gazing into each other’s eyes with trust and adoration. Less than a year ago, Michael had said a final good-bye to his dad, who’d died much too young; now he is doing the unthinkable in bidding a premature farewell to his mom.

Mary is unresponsive. Michael does the only thing he can think of. Quietly, he sings one of the oldies his parents loved.

“Do you wanna dance?” His voice catches, as he remembers how his dad had often sung these words to his mom, all those years ago. He recalls how they’d laugh in each other’s arms, dancing in the moonlight.

Mary doesn’t twitch even the tiniest muscle. Michael doesn’t know if she’s even aware he’s there, but he sings on, as much to comfort himself as to try to reach her.

Mary’s body is failing. She lies motionless in her hospital bed. But, as Michael continues to sing, an image deep inside her is forming of a hazy dance floor. One of Joe’s favourite tunes is playing, muffled at first but gradually becoming more distinct. Raising her gaze without actually opening her eyes, Mary sees a strong, young Joe emerge through banks of mist. All of her pain, extreme as it has been, evaporates as he reaches out to her.

Mary and Joe embrace. They begin to sway to the melody Michael is singing. Mary feels the tug of her son’s affection but knows, in time, he will be fine. He’ll find true love, and be as blessed as his parents. She can let him go.

In the colourless hospital room, Mary takes a shuddering last breath. A nurse pats Michael kindly on his shoulder as he breaks down in ragged sobs.

But somewhere beautiful, Mary and Joe Bleaker are dancing together. They hold each other tightly, laugh with delight, and do not look back.

***

Sally Basmajian is the author of three traditionally published novels (So Hard to Do, a romcom; Fountain of Evil, a dark romance; and Apprentices in Magic, a middle-grade fantasy) and countless short stories, some of which are award-winners. With 30,000 TikTok followers, she micro-influences by gleefully reading entries from her teen diaries.