[imagine six strings hanging from your fingers, hands outstretched. What's
hanging from them?]

His hands were magnetic, she thought. He's not handsome, but in some way,
you step onto the dancefloor and you're just drawn to put your hand in his,
let him take yours to his waist, and lose track of time. 
-----

A usual Saturday night was to stay home, make tea, read a book or work on a
piece of artwork, but a friend had insisted she come along to the dance. It
wasn't the awkward dancefloor of teenagers who didn't know what to do with
their bodies, but a whole array of people, coming mostly in couples, but
nearly half came alone or in gaggles of friends. 

The caller was a thin man with a sharp, clear voice, calling the dance as
the band played. The fiddle player looked to be his brother, more than
likely, a little heavier set, but playing lively, and setting the rhythm.

She was shocked to find that she really liked dancing, swinging up and down
the sets, swirls and twists and passes, and then always coming back,
elbow-to-elbow with her friend.

"Martina! I love it! Why didn't you drag me here sooner?!"

"I've been telling you!"

"I thought it would be like those clubs, too loud and booming music!"

They'd be whisked away and then back again, and she cast a rakish grin at
her friend.

A break was called and she flopped herself over the chairs at the edge of
the room and Martina grabbed glasses of water.

"The guy playing the mandolin is a guy I met when I was out walking by the
river a few months ago. He asked me to come, and I didn't know what I was in
for either. I thought I was just going to listen to a band." Martina
laughed at herself. "I didn't know I was going to love it so much either."