We danced. It was the last time I would see her, but, neither of us knew it, and, visions of gaudy, expensive rings and dresses ruined by salinity danced through my head. She clung close to me, her head resting on my protruding sternum and I moved more fluidly than I ever had or have. It was a song by Serge Gainesbourgh and, ocassionally, his daughter would chime in with lilting, etherial notes and in those moments, she would cling even closer, her small breasts crushed against my chest and the blood rushed to my head. The drinks we were using to bring us to this point were quickly discarded, our bar tab forgotten in the sweltering heat of the top floor of this old warehouse-turned-dance hall. I can't say we were in love, but, who knows? Maybe for those few moments, our legs intertwined, thigh against thigh, maybe we were. Maybe love is never a permanent feeling, maybe love is not a birth-right, maybe it is just a few fleeting moments that remind us that we really are fucked from birth to death and we might as well appreciate the few small blessings we're given and not try to manufacture something divine in nature.
I left the next day for the sweltering green and she stayed where she was and we never answered each other's phone calls.
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