So the next week comes . . .

The happy hour starts slowly as the dancers filter in from work, the men usually there first, the women taking the time to go home and prepare themselves, and the couples usually meeting up before coming in together. Most of the time even the band assembles itself slowly. The freeway traffic or the job impeding their progress towards the night's playing time. Sometimes the summer day, daylight saving time in place, makes it hard to come inside. Still, it's the dancing that draws, and the contact that passes for friendship, or relationship, or communitas. The dancing that I know I don't want to take so seriously that I forget that keeping it casual and lightly connected is what has always made this work for me. It's when I forget that that things go bad, get rough, and life like a boat on the sea can capsize on me.

So the next week comes and I'm still hearing that light laugh, seeing her eyes, in my mind my thoughts are scrabbling around like rats in a maze hot on the the scent of cheese. And now it is time for happy hour.