Bathroom Monologue: She Danced

This post is dedicated to Randall Nichols and Theresa Bazelli. It has no new content, so as to appropriately inform one and annoy the other.

 She danced like no one I've ever seen. You ever stick your hand out the car window and wave it up and down in tune to the breeze? Like it's a wing in the wind, or part of an invisible current? You ever done that when you're tired and your defenses are down, and you find that feeling becomes more important than steering the car? No, you'd never admit it, but I do that. And watching that princess bound and dip like she didn't have a backbone, it was like watching another person perform the feeling I get in my hand. She wasn't lithe, but a girl made of wires couldn't have done all that. She made me a fan of ballet inside of one minute. It was the only real elegance I've ever seen, so in rhythm with the music that I never would have believed she was improvising, and I never could have believed anything else. I knew right then on the edge of my chair that this was the woman I was going to marry.

It's a lucky thing I fell in love with her at first sight, too, because goddamn, she was a case. Snuck into the reception and discovered my princess chewing out her horn section for being a quarter-beat off. I tried bringing her a glass of bubbly and she blew past me, spilling it all down the side of my jacket. Didn't even glance back. 

A few minutes later I sidled up and she handed me a glass. I thought it was an apology and sipped it. But as soon as I tasted the stale stuff, she laid into me. Thought I was staff and wanted me to take her old drink to the kitchen, not sip it and listen to the conversation. Even when I explained her mistake, she had this way of making it seem like I was wrong.

Should have backed down, as I didn't fare much better in conversation than I did as a waiter. Got verbally spanked on the history of dance, and then on the history of sculpture. As I slunk away she complained that she didn't want to see anymore fans, and I warned a couple of approachers on my way out. Apparently I did it too close to earshot. She peeled right between her fans, berating and jabbing me in the chest until I was up against a wall.

That I didn't throw her across the hall is evidence of love at first sight, or at least extremely patient lust. Even charging me, this woman could move, shuffling her feet like a bird. But banging my head was still too much and I stripped off my jacket, still wet with her stale drink, and tossed it in her face.

Even then, I wasn't really mad. I just wanted to see how mad she'd get at a legitimate provocation. The reaction? Angry like birds in rage, all exaggerated head turns and fluttering her arms. Any time she got tiffed for the rest of the night she'd glare at me across the floor, like I was an investor in everything that got under her skin. No doubt in my mind that's how I landed the first date.