To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Friday August 2nd, 1999 13:04 PM
Subject: RE RE RE RE RE I actually feel a little guilty
Stacey, you made me dance. Yep, I danced without music around the study. I picked Oftenbark up by his paws and led him around the desk until he gave me a look of sheer embarrassment.
But I don't care.
I can still dance by myself.
I can tap.
See, you made me Fred Astaire as I tapped to the corner of the room, up the walls and onto the ceiling.
I tapped around the light fittings and the cobwebs.
Skip ball change and shuffle onto buffalo, finally returning to desk, the chair and the computer – exhausted, delighted and thirsty but not done. Just needing a moment of pause, an interval, if you will, to catch my breath and take it all in.
Which is always dangerous, for in that afterglow the devil of reflection takes a seat beside you and gloats; not in the glory of your hoofing but in fog of reality.
Devil: You can’t dance! She can dance. She does it for a job. But you cannot dance. You are inflexible, clumsy and uncoordinated.
Me: I don’t need to dance professionally.
Devil: But you do need to pick a partner.
Me: Just one?
Devil: Just one.
Me: Can’t I dance in a group? Some dances are made for groups.
Devil: Name this dance.
Me: Let me think.
Devil: See you are wrong.
Me: I’m thinking.
Devil: Stalling more like. See, I am right. I am always right. In your
face, Dom. Right in your face--
Me: The Conga line.
I then pick up a chewed-top-pen from my accidental collection I thrust the tip into his red tail.
He screams and he’s gone.
I am alone again wishing to see you more than ever.
But I can’t sneak out tonight, darling.
I have to go to Elsa’s parent’s house. It’s their wedding anniversary and the family are meeting in their country home for a catered dinner and booze up.
And we have to stay the night.
God I don’t want to. I know I’ll be thinking of you the whole time. I’ll be thinking I want to come home.
PS Yes they have a country home, can you believe it. It’s amazing; a large wooden palace with wrap around verandas inland and up the North Coast. They’ve even given it a name. I can’t remember it but it’s Gaelic for home, I think.