Stanley stiffens his quiff with a last blast of spray and steps out onto the floor. Glenda is waiting for him, leaning on the banister at the foot of the spiral staircase and looking across expectantly in his direction. He glides over, stomach slightly tensed, and reaches for her hand. She very gently places hers in his.
They briefly take each other in.
She rests her other hand on his shoulder. They are now in hold and will not exchange eye contact again for the duration of the dance.
A pause, then the music kicks in and the pair sweep away, painting precise patterns on the floor, swirling in Viennese circles, looping and looping and looping their way around the perimeter of the room, slicing through the areas where an audience might be. They fleckerl and spin on the spot, wrapping themselves in a imaginary coil, ravelling and unravelling and setting off again.
Stanley smiles blankly, no sign of the familiar excitement which is whisking itself up within him. Glenda's smile is serene, unflinching, unrevealing.
They need not communicate anything more. This is their dance. This is how they will remember each other.
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