“That is,” said Taz. “The most ridículo thing I’ve ever
heard.”
There wasn’t anything he could say. Taz let out an
exhalation of frustration.
“I’m done dancing for today,” she said, turning to go.
“Wait!” Alejandro cried dramatically. “At least let me
have a look at your hair, darling – I’m sure there’s
something I could do -”
Taz spun around. “Touch my hair and I will strangle you
with that goddamned scarf you’re always wearing around
your neck.”
The stylist touched his scarf protectively. “It’s an ascot,”
he said icily.
Up watched her go, the full force of his shame returned
to him.
They didn’t discuss the moustache fiasco, but they did
continue their dance lessons. They branched out into
different styles, learning together, trying to remember what
Madame LaViolet had taught them all those years ago. It
seemed to be working – Up’s mobility was improving, and
he was having fewer attacks. The physio doctor was
impressed with his progress and pronounced Taz the best
thing he could have prescribed for the Commander. Up
almost smiled at that.
Up was quiet today, but he was always quiet now,
withdrawn, remote. They were attempting a waltz, and he
was focused on his feet instead of her eyes, but she didn’t
remind him otherwise because she knew he needed to
concentrate.
“Do you remember the Ambassador’s Ball?” she said
over the tinny music of the physio centre’s radio.
He glanced up, only for a moment. “Of course I do.” The
brassy tones of some dead jazz singer invaded the space