A Step Toward the Water

At sunrise, the island in Lake Bled seemed to hover between two pale skies. Its church tower rose from a dark fringe of trees, and beneath it a second tower lengthened through the still water. On the western shore, Nina stopped beneath branches turning gold and breathed in the cool smell of wet leaves. She had come out to watch Slovenia wake, with no more demanding intention than walking until she wanted coffee. Then she noticed the man near the bench taking precisely three steps forward, turning, and looking down at his feet with profound disappointment.

He tried again. This time he nearly collided with the bench.

Nina had spent enough years dancing to recognize the beginning of a waltz, although the hiking shoes made it difficult to be certain. She was forty-one now, and it had been a decade since she last danced seriously. The habit of listening for rhythm remained; she heard it in passing trains, washing machines, the uneven tapping of this stranger's shoes. When he caught her watching, she gave him the sympathetic smile usually reserved for someone whose umbrella had turned inside out. He responded by bowing to the bench, which made her laugh.

His name was Anton. He was staying nearby and had come to the lakeside hoping for somewhere to practice without an audience. Nina apologized for spoiling the plan, but he said an audience of one was manageable, provided she understood that this was not a fair representation of his abilities. His abilities, he explained, were normally worse. He looked about her age, with a broad forehead, a close beard and a smile that seemed to surprise him each time it appeared. She had planned to keep walking. Instead, she asked whether he was preparing for a wedding.

He shook his head, looking briefly at a pair of soft shoes tucked into his open bag. Before he could explain, a runner came along the path and they stepped aside. A moment later, a silver-haired man with amber eyes and a cobalt-blue scarf passed them at a leisurely pace, carrying a newspaper under his arm. The interruption might have ended the conversation. Nina found herself waiting for it to resume.

Anton said he would explain if she told him whether the turn was as bad as it felt. She asked him to try it once more and watched the problem reveal itself: he was anticipating the end so anxiously that he never quite arrived in the middle. She recognized the habit from her own first lessons. Without thinking, she demonstrated, marking the steps with almost no movement. His attention followed her feet, then lifted to her face with such immediate interest that she felt a small warmth despite the morning air.

She explained that she had danced at university and for some years afterward. There had been a partner, competitions, a wardrobe of dresses she could no longer imagine wearing. When the relationship ended, she had stopped attending the same classes. Eventually stopping became the ordinary state of things. She had not missed the rehearsals much, or the judges. She had missed the rare feeling of moving with someone who was listening as closely as she was.

Anton asked whether she would show him with a partner. He said it as a genuine question, already making room for a refusal. Nina glanced at the flat, dry space beside the bench. There was enough room for a few careful steps without obstructing the path. She put her bag down and offered her hand.

His palm was warm, his fingers closing lightly around hers. When his other hand settled at her back, he paused until she adjusted the distance between them. She had expected muscle memory and a little amusement. She had not expected the immediate awareness of his shoulders beneath his jacket, or how close his face would be when she looked up. For the first few steps she concentrated fiercely on counting. Then he relaxed, and the turn arrived so naturally that both of them laughed.

They stopped as another walker approached, but he did not drop her hand until she lowered it herself. Nina sat on the bench to catch her breath, less from exertion than from the strange pleasure of being physically close to someone she wanted to know. Across the lake, sunlight was finding the church walls. A swan moved through the island's reflection, leaving the tower gently broken behind it. Anton sat beside her with the discreet distance of a man who had noticed something change and did not intend to hurry it.

He finally explained the shoes. At forty-four, after an ordinary conversation over lunch, he had signed up for a beginners' dance course. A friend had complained that there was nothing new left to do that would not require being young. Anton disagreed, rather too confidently, and found himself responsible for proving it. Now he and his regular dance partner, a retired pharmacist with formidable ambitions, had entered a small amateur competition back home. She had sent him away on holiday with strict instructions to practice the turn.

Nina was laughing before he finished. The mystery was smaller and sweeter than the wedding she had imagined: a man willing to be bad at something because he wanted the pleasure of learning it. He showed her a photograph of himself and the pharmacist, both wearing expressions of grave concentration. The woman's husband was visible behind them, enthusiastically holding up two thumbs. Nina liked the fact that Anton had thought to show her the whole photograph.

They began walking along the shore. The path offered new angles on the island as the light strengthened, the mountains gradually separating from the mist. Nina told him she had come to Bled after visiting friends in Ljubljana. She had added three nights simply because she could, and had felt faintly extravagant until she arrived. Anton had done much the same. Neither offered this as evidence of loneliness. It was enough that two pleasant journeys had crossed, and that each was now making small, transparent excuses to prolong the crossing.

At a quiet stretch of shore he asked whether she ever thought of dancing again. She had usually answered that question by listing practical objections: classes, time, finding a partner. Today she admitted that she was afraid it would feel less wonderful than she remembered. Anton considered this, then said that the first turn had felt rather wonderful to him. His voice had lost its teasing note. Nina looked at his mouth and knew he had noticed.

“Would you like to try once more?” she asked.

He held out his hand. They made only a few steps on the level path, turning slowly, without music or any pretense of giving a performance. When they stopped, she stayed close, letting the last count go unspoken. Anton brushed his thumb across her fingers. Nina lifted her face and told him that she would very much like to be kissed. His answering smile stayed with her as their lips met. She rested a hand against his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of his beard, and he drew her gently closer. For once she had no interest in remembering the steps.

They exchanged numbers while sitting on the next bench, their knees touching. Nina sent him the address of a class she knew in her own city and promised to find one near him, then proposed something more immediate: another walk that afternoon, the rest of the lake this time. He accepted and asked if she would bring the music. She said she might, although it had seemed unnecessary so far.

When they finally rose, Anton took her hand without having to ask which direction she meant to go. The lake was blue now, the island distinctly solid, and somewhere behind the trees the town was becoming busy. Nina had come out for a sunrise and a little air. As they walked on together, she caught herself quietly counting, already looking forward to the next turn.