The two of them are at a fais do-do. A Cajun dance party. So, they are in Louisiana for some reason. Very rustic. Lots of fiddle and accordion. It doesn’t seem like a business function. It’s not cleaned up enough. Some of the people look pretty back-woodsy. It doesn’t seem to be a place of business. They definitely seem to be strangers, but people have welcomed them for some reason.
She is having a great time, drinking and eating gumbo, and listening to people talk in their pointy French. Her man is off being entertaining, but she pops over every so often to listen for a while, his arm around her waist. A lot of people are dancing, of course they’re dancing, and they keep asking her to dance, but she doesn’t know how.
“It’s OK, I’m having a great time. I don’t need to dance,” she says. And she means it.
“All the jeunes filles should be dancing” says a weather-beaten man who could be 60 or 90.
“Well thanks for the jeune fille, m’sieur”
“je vais t’enseigner” he says, and he grabs her and shows her the steps, guides her around the floor.
“attends, attends..j’peux me dechausser?”
“bien sur, ma p’tite.”
She kicks her shoes off and soon they are spinning around the floor.
She dances and dances in her bare feet, her man watches and smiles. Happy to see her so happy. Occasionally he rescues her during a slow song and they dance together.
“Having a good time, baby?”
She just nods, smiles, and puts her head against his chest while they spin in time.
Back at their hotel, she sits on the side of the tub, soaking the grime off her feet. Enjoying the hot water and bubbles on her tired feet. Taking her time. Pouring white wine out of a bottle on the floor next to the tub.
Her man, impatient, says he needs her to get her feet out of the tub and come to bed.
“You do NOT want these filthy feet in our bed, baby” and she keeps soaking.
“I am not interested in your feet right now.”
She laughs and says “then you will have to come and get me” and squeals when he comes after her. She pulls both of them into the huge tub, laughing. He pulls her on top of him and asks if she’s planning on sharing that wine.
“Don’t you know? Everything I have is yours.”
“Except those grubby feet.”
“No no–no cherry picking. All or nothing, Mister.”
“All. I’ll even wash your feet. After all, it’s Good Friday. It’s the least I can do.”