Page 51 of Keeper
Poppy’s moves aren’t sexy in the least bit. But her smile could light up all of London. She’s like sunshine no matter what time of day it is. She wildly shakes her hair out over her face with her hands above her head as she dances along with the homeless gentleman. Even the passersby can’t help but smile at the silly scene. She looks like a bouncing little girl trapped in the body of a beautiful woman.
I lean on a small tree and watch. Blue and red lights pour down on her from the busy pub next door. People inside are drinking and partying, using the pub to facilitate a fun night out, whereas all Poppy needs is a friendly face and a little music.
This is probably one of my favourite things about her. She’s confident enough to start dancing anywhere she feels like, onlookers be damned.
The food truck worker hollers, “Hallo!” He’s holding our two kebabs and frowning at Poppy. “She not very good dencer,” he says in a thick Turkish accent.
I laugh and then laugh some more. “No…No, she’s not. But she’s something, isn’t she?”
He shrugs and hands me the food. I stride over to her, meat-sticks in hand.
“Dance with me, Booker!” she sings.
“I’ve got the food.” I shake them at her as if she can’t see them plain as day.
“Who cares? Kebabs are street food, historically made for dancing. It’s probably in some literature somewhere.” She shimmies over to me and grabs one stick out of my hand. Then she takes my newly freed hand in hers and spins herself under my arm.
I stand there with a straight face as she continues using me to dance. “I’m just a prop to you, aren’t I?”
She bites a chunk of pineapple off the stick. “Mmmhmm,” she giggles and chews the food, wiping the bit that drizzles down her chin. “Because surely you can’t dance. You never danced with me when we were kids even though I always begged you. Mr. Dull and Painfully Boring, this one.” She sighs heavily, a naughty glint in her eyes that eggs me on.
I shake my head at her because I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s trying to goad me into performing for her like a puppet. And I don’t fucking care.
Two can play at this game.
I hand her my kebab, and she jumps up and down with a squeal of delight over what she doesn’t even know is coming. I bounce my head to the beat and the trumpeter gets louder. I inhale deeply before diving down on the ground to do the worm dance, repeating the smooth body roll over and over.
Poppy’s shocked, gut-spitting laughter is so worth the bruises this will leave on my hip bones tomorrow. She’s never seen me do this move before because I didn’t learn how to do it until several years ago when Tanner wanted me in on a goal celebration. We had it all planned out. And when he scored a goal, he soared like a bird all the way across the field to me, where I was doing the worm. Then he did a dive-bomb on me, like a bird devouring a worm.
We looked ridiculous.
Naturally, it was replayed on sports networks for weeks.
I spring up to my feet and cross my arms over my chest for a brief b-boy pose before reaching out for my kebab like nothing happened. Poppy is buckled over laughing. Once she contains herself, she gives me a hearty round of applause with several whoops of cheering.
Smiling, I dig a note out of my pocket and toss a tenner in the man’s trumpet case. His brows lift as he keeps playing, and Poppy pauses to look straight into the musician’s eyes as she says, “Thank you for the music.”
He nods a musical thank you and away we go with our street food.
We walk for a few minutes, silently eating before Poppy touches my arm. “Thank you as well,” she says reverently, looking up at me as we head toward our flat. “For the food and the dancing and the music.”
I look at her in wonder as she thoughtfully picks at her kebab. Poppy is quite possibly the most appreciative person I know. Even when we were younger, I remember her thanking me all the time. And it didn’t matter if it was for something as simple as helping her up off the ground when she tripped, which she did a lot. She always made sure we connected eyes before she thanked me.
Here she is again, being so quintessentially Poppy and acting like truck food and a street musician is a night at the theatre.
I shrug. “See now, if you never lived with me, you never would have had the opportunity to dance on a London sidewalk at ten o’clock at night with a meat-stick in your hand.”
She beams and pulls a piece off. “So true, Booker. I love it here. I hope I love Hoxton just as much.”
The thought of her leaving in a month brings an uneasiness to my chest. “We can see if my building has any openings if you’d like.”
“Sick of me already?” she exclaims in horror.
“No…Actually, I was thinking Hoxton seems a bit too far away.” I can feel her eyes on me, so I grab a bite to avoid her penetrative gaze.
“Hoxton is only a mile away, you nutter!” I shrug, but she does a little twirl and continues. “You won’t want me around in a month anyway. You’ll be ready for some space.”
I stop her from doing another spin and wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her to me. The fragrance of her perfume is faint this late at night but still present. “I’ll never need space from you, Pop.” I kiss the top of her head and let my arm rest on her shoulder as I pull a bite off my stick.
