to patrick and the universe

I waltzed onstage directly towards you, confident. (I probably would have been less so if I'd known it was you and all your swagger, glamour, glitter, but I didn't, I'll admit that. For the better?) The little wing of the stage was mine for the evening - a go go gig for free drink - and I would stake it, taking the work very seriously. It was mine, this stage. To dance for hours.

I put my purse down on your dj table, grabbed the edges and dipped down for you, locking eyes, letting my long red hair fall to the floor. Hello, I said at the time, I'm here to dance for your party.

The next day I saw your face on the cover of The Hour. I laughed. I gave you an alias name to match my alias persona, but what a friend you might be if I hadn't lied.

I didn't recognize you today, when I happened into your salon with alternative press in hand, and I took me a minute to place those intense eyes and high cheekbones. You are someone here, you know, which is something. Your energy fills a room. I was a stranger but danced for you all night long , my legs in pain in the morning. For you. For the room. But I would dance again until dawn if asked. ask me to.

Today, when I told you who I was that night your perfectly arched eyebrows jumped. You, you said, were so, so fun. We talked about the next time the music could unite us. You'll know, you said, I'll make sure. As I made my leave, shyly putting out my hand to shake, you grabbed it, pulling me close and planting kisses on my cheeks. You are so much fun.


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Dear, dear Patrick - and things at work beyond what we can know that keep people bumping into each other here - I want to dance for you all night again. I want to dip for you again. I want a wig for you again. Let me know.