Went out dancing and

The music swung and the dance partners were sweet. A tall blonde took my lead and turned it into a wavy graceful line, a dark brunette, older, but in love with dance, took my lead and turned it into a chance to express her hope and willingness to try, and then later, another blonde almost captured my love of the dangerous with her smooth and dynamic explosive hips, capricious smiling lips, and courageous dives into my leading dips.

Dance lets me lead many lives. I found myself at the break outside gazing at the bright, clear sky and the sparkling stars. I felt the need to breathe it all in. In my mind, as I, we, move to the music and in and out of each other's embrace I try to trace the maybe of what each move means to her to me? I romanticise by playing with the possibilities. It's good but sometimes frustrating. The dance partners are like ice cream when I can't get enough. The overload is dangerous.

Sometimes I try to . . .

Sometimes I try to . . . remember dancing as a kid. In my memory the radio plays from a car parked in the grocery store parking lot. We dancers are swing dancing to early rock and roll not really aware that things are about to change. My friend, Wendy, who later died from cancer, jumps into my arms for a side to side scissor move and I swing her right then left then up high before bringing her down. We're dancing so fast it's like we're running.