One Last Dance

It was a night out, an evening of fun with friends. It hadn’t happened in quite a spell. Live music, smiles, drinks, laughs, dancing. These were the moments that inform nostalgia years down the line. The memories, the few hours of spiritual freedom, the notion that everything within these walls was flawless. No matter how fuzzy the memories ended up, or how horrifying the hangover may be, just the knowledge that nights like this can happen, that there are people in your life that you can share moments like this with, are what create a damn near unbreakable sense of life being nothing short of beautiful. Yeah, genocide. Yeah, AIDS. Yeah poverty and malnutrition and politics and three-dollar apples at New Seasons. Yeah, stubbing your toe so hard that the nail falls off and at that moment of impact, knowing that the pain is equal to being shot in the chest with a small caliber pistol

But for now, this is for us—a release and a relief—our Footloose moment. Dance your ass off. This is our time.

You pulled me up to a fast song and we did that thing we do. We danced, and smiled, and laughed and mugged and vamped. We bumped into strangers with friendly smiles and apologetic hands on shoulders, to be met with more smiles and mimed versions of “It’s OK!” We spun, we bobbed and weaved, we floated like slightly buzzed butterflies and stung like stingerless bees (yeah, I know. Doesn’t make sense, but I had to finish the Ali appropriation).

And the fast song stopped, and the slow jam kicked in and we fell into a familiar stance, your arms around my waist, one of mine up and around and between your shoulder blades, the other down and around and planted firmly in the small of your back., that perfect valley of intimacy We swayed a well-known sway, your head against my chest, my chin gently rested on the top of your head. Saying nothing, just slow, weight from one foot to another, in unison, just being there. And every mistake I’ve ever made blossoming in my mind and my heart.

Thankfully before I could get too involved in myself (and let’s face it, that’s my flaw. Always involved in myself. This entry is a glaring testament to that) the song ended and we decoupled, smiled, raised hands to the low ceiling and cheered.

Back to the table with friends, and drinks, and small talk, you danced with an old man, and young friend, all of us like chattering squirrels, talking in tongues that would make no sense to someone who didn’t speak the language.

And then another slow song, and you stood up and held out your hand and there wasn’t even a moment of hesitation. In my mind I was reaching for your hand before the song even started. But in the real world, you reached first. You always did. Because you’re the brave one, the smart one.

And we went back to it: waist, between shoulder blades, small of back. The difference this time was I was already opened up, emotionally, so everything became almost “Too Much”, but it was a “Too Much” that I didn’t mind. The smell of your hair, the softness of it as I turned my head and rested my cheek on top of your head. I forgot how your hair always smells a little bit like rain, even in the heat of summer. Things I couldn’t relive right now, due to circumstances, like how my lips fit perfectly into to dimple of your temple. The tightness of your hold on my waist, how I held you so closely that it felt like I was trying to absorb you into me, the fear of the song ending even though it had only been going for about twenty seconds. Our tempo floated off into its own thing, my mind was fogged with the now, the notes and drums and din of the room fazing out like a DJ dropped the lo-pass filter (I had to nerd out at least once, right?). I was peripherally worried that I might be holding you too tight, but then I noticed that you weren’t being dainty either. My hand that was on your lower back was pulling as tight as it could, as was my hand that was up high. I couldn’t get you close enough, tight enough; I couldn’t block out the surrounding environment enough to be happy. I wanted us to just float off and up through the roof, into the sky, away from all of the bullshit and missteps I’ve made. I knew that couldn’t happen, but this was an acceptable Plan B.

I was cracking inside, but it wasn’t pain that was leaking out. It was a glow, of knowing that the world could make someone as overwhelmingly magical as you. And that I was able, if even for a scant few minutes, to experience you like most others would never be able to. It’s a deadly sin, I know, but I took great Pride in that blessing. And also wondered why in the hell I was allowed such a privilege.

And then, as they always do, the song ended.

Someone needs to make a thirty-minute slow jam. These four-minute ones aren’t cutting the mustard.

We held on after the music ended, just for a brief moment, arms still in a vice-like grip around one another. Then, slowly, we separated, and smiled slowly, shyly, and went back to the table. Whatever I may have talked about with anyone after that moment, it was all autopilot. I have no recollection. My brain wasn’t so much in the present as it was jammed in a locked groove of the previous dance, of the previous few years, of the knowledge that no one will ever… well, no need to get in to that.

And like all songs, the night ended.

“The one thing that is better than the last slow dance we had?

Everything.

And what’s better than the last slow dance we had?

Nothing.”

- J. Beauregard