witching hours

Buzzing from a three am brownie rush and a sweet, sweet tango high.

Man, those four hours of dancing passed like forty minutes. And as a reward, I suppose, for branching out, for going stag to an unknown milonga, I was blessed with lovely leaders. A whole night without a foot wound and, though imperfect, my dancing went somewhere. I was flying, I was alone in a room with a man I hardly knew (one at a time), I was closing my eyes to everything and everyone and wishing I could stay all night, dancing until I got better, until the world made sense.

But I came home—in a cab that nearly broke the sound barrier—and now I tuck myself in to the sound of confused birds tweeting away in the dark.

Buona Pasqua a tutti . . .