Dance with Me
Emma had caught George’s eye the moment she stepped into the office—slim, blonde, with striking hazel eyes. The women in the office split into factions, whispering behind her back. Some swore her hair was dyed—“Hazel eyes with that shade? Impossible.” Others insisted she wore coloured contacts. Yet weeks passed, and her roots never betrayed her. Sometimes she wore glasses—why, if she had lenses?
George was large, soft around the edges, with round, flushed cheeks, square horn-rimmed glasses, and ill-fitting clothes. His surname—Pumblechook—didn’t help. Shy, awkward, and earnest, he reminded people of a certain literary character. But with computers, he was a wizard. Any glitch, any snag—George could fix it.
“George, help! My screen’s frozen!”
“George, can you sort this video edit?”
He’d tap away, solve the problem, and blush furiously when Lydia or Victoria pecked his cheek in thanks.
Then there was Connor—the office charmer, effortlessly suave. Within days, he was bringing Emma coffee, offering lifts home. George’s heart sank with every flirtatious grin Connor tossed her way. What chance did he have? Connor was golden, confident, the kind of man who made women weak with laughter. Meanwhile, George was just… George.
His mother had raised him alone. When he asked about his father, she told him plainly—she’d wanted a child before time ran out. “You were clever even then,” she’d say, doting on him. After university, George landed a decent IT job, earning enough to keep them comfortable. His mother baked endlessly, and George ate, growing rounder by the year.
But Emma was different. He saved her photos, stared for hours. She barely noticed him.
One morning, he sabotaged her computer. When she begged for help, he played the hero, deleting his own malware with exaggerated effort.
“Ask for anything!” she gushed.
“Anything?” His voice was strange. Emma faltered.
“Within reason,” she amended. “Dinner? The cinema?”
“I’ve seen every film. The New Year’s party—dance with me.”
“With you?” Her brow furrowed. “Alright, I promise.”
At the party, Connor swept Emma away before George could speak. He left, heart heavy.
The next day, Emma apologised. “You left so early—I would’ve danced.”
George adjusted his glasses. “I get it. I’m not like Connor.”
“You’re kind, clever,” she said quickly. “But maybe… lose weight? Try contacts? Better clothes? Women notice looks too.”
At home, George stared into the mirror. She was right. He refused his mother’s pies the next morning, offering them at work instead.
“Now I see why you’re so cuddly,” Connor joked, devouring his third.
George scoured the internet for solutions. Then he saw it—a dance class advert.
A woman’s voice answered his call. “Come tomorrow at seven.”
The next evening, he stood before Laura—not the slip of a girl he’d imagined, but a woman with warm eyes.
“Too fat?” he muttered.
“Nonsense. Desire matters, not shape.”
He stumbled, stepped on her feet, but she laughed. “You’re a natural!”
Three weeks later, his trousers sagged. Connor noticed first. “Lost weight, Pumblechook? Found a girl?”
George bought new clothes, swapped glasses for lenses. Laura helped, picking shoes.
“Like Connor’s,” he murmured, studying himself. “Think a girl might fancy me now?”
Laura paused. “You’re learning for a girl?”
“Yes.”
Her smile was thin. “She’ll love it.”
Before the spring office party, Emma approached him. “You’ve changed. I remember my promise.”
George’s heart soared.
Laura advised him—black shirt, sleeves rolled. “No one dances like you. Not even Connor.”
At the party, George waited. When a slow song played, he offered his hand. Emma followed, gasping as he guided her effortlessly across the floor. The room stilled. By the song’s end, he dipped her low, drawing applause.
Connor clapped his shoulder. “Teach me?”
But George left early, rushing to the dance studio. Laura was waiting.
“Well?”
“I stunned them,” he admitted.
“And Emma?”
“She stepped on my feet.” He laughed nervously. “It’s you who taught me. Helped me believe.”
“George, I’m older—”
“Does it matter?” He kissed her.
The next day, Emma asked, “Where’d you learn to dance like that?”
“Someone special,” George said softly. “I love her.”
He kept his word—posted online, brought Laura students. When he proposed, his mother balked, then relented.
George had learned to dance for one girl, but love had found him another.
