I know I posted Friday that I had plans to stay at home and spend quality time with my man. Well, plans have a way of changing on me when I think I have them set straight. All day Friday, I had the foreboding sense that I was getting sick because my nose and head were feeling stuffy since I got up that morning. When, I closed up shop that afternoon, I went back to my apartment to drink lots of water and rest until Scott got home.

I had just unlocked the door to my apartment when my cell rang. It was Scott telling me to be dressed up and ready to go out by the time he got home. Just great, I thought to myself. The one evening I actually don’t mind being a couch potato, his feet get itchy. So, I dolled myself up in a mid-thigh-length swishy black and red cocktail dress with my favorite black heels- no too high but not flat either.

When Scott arrived, I could tell he thoroughly enjoyed my hard work. Quickly changing into black slacks and a crisp white shirt, he dodged my questions. When he turned to me, arms outstretched for me to evaluate his look, I shook my head, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and ruffled his dirty blond hair, which has gotten thicker than its buzz cut when we first met. “Where are we going?” I repeated for the millionth time in the past 30 minutes.

Instead of answering, he just kissed the top of my head, grabbed our coats, and pushed me outside and into a taxi.

Here’s the kicker to my weekend: Scott took me to a dance club. No, it wasn’t like those clubs that have College Night and such. This one was a ways out the metro area and entirely secluded. It was a ballroom dancing club. The doorman embraced Scott, saying, “Wondered when you’d come by and see me, Scat.” He didn’t call him Bro, or Scottie, or Scottie-Boy like I do, but rather, Scat. Hm, odd. “Who’s this beauty that you’ve conned into coming with you?”

I stuck out my hand and introduced myself, all while staying stuck to Scott’s side like a bur on a dog. Once we were inside, Scott got us a little table closest to the enormous oak dance floor and went to get some wine. I sat there like a deer in headlights trying to take it all in and almost screamed when an older man touched my shoulder. “A pretty woman like you shouldn’t be watching alone, she should be dancing in the midst of it.”

He took my hand and guided me through a particularly nice mambo number. Who knew that I could dance so gracefully? I caught Scott’s eye for a second before the handsome man with the salt and pepper hair twirled me. He was grinning like no other man I had ever seen smile.

The stranger took me back to Scott at the end of the song and said, “That was a true pleasure dancing with you my dear. Keep this gem safe, Scat.”

“Who was that?” I asked after I drank half my glass of wine.

“Jon owns this place and a popular restaurant in the middle of the city. His son and I were dorm-mates in college, and I got hooked on this place.”

I looked around at the warm atmosphere that subtly reminded you of a lost culture that was sadly never going to be found again. I looked up at him with a challenging glint in my eye. “How good are you Twinkle-Toes?”

I admitted defeat around one in the morning. As the night went on, the music became more and more heavy, laced with songs of lust and passion. By the time we left, the hair around my neck was sweaty and my entire body was blush red.

We went back to his apartment, shared a piece of cheesecake and collapsed into the bed.

By the way, I am sick now. I blame the stupid cold weather. Scott blames me not wearing a jacket enough. But, he did make me chicken and rice soup and is being my nurse.    I am still sore from dancing, stuffed up with sinus trouble, losing my voice because of the dag-blasted coughing, and not paying a bit of attention to the Super Bowl…Except the commercials. I love Superbowl commercials because they don’t make me want to buy a thing, unlike what the ad people seem to think. Hope everybody else’s weekend was good. For the record, I love you Scott, but given the chance, Tom Brady would so be mine.    Forget about Giselle… well never-mind, it’s Giselle of all models!