The Dance

My god it was romantic. At least if you fancy yourself different, deep, above. I did. I do. I mean, white gowns are not for me. A fad started by Queen Victoria and a nod to virginal purity. Come on. When was the last time you went to a virgin’s wedding? Traditional vows were everyone belongs to everyone else, obeys. Unlikely. Father’s giving away their daughters? Does your father own you? Are you a gift? But I’m painting myself as a cynic. What a cruel brush. I’m not. I’m married. My father walked with me down the stone steps of a medieval Italian castle. But that’s another story. This one took place on the deck of a three-masted, eighteenth century cargo vessel moored at a pier in San Francisco.

The evening was cool with a mottled sky hanging over the harbour. The couple was stunning. She was the friend who never wore makeup but glowed with something you wish you could bottle. He was older, Irish. With the rough hands of craftsman and the heart of a poet. Actually, I have no idea what he did for a living but he looked like a poet and smoked like one. Probably in data management, it was the nineties in SF what do you expect? But don’t let it sully the image, he was handsome and wearing, I swear, tweed.

I was alone. Recently dumped by a man with a motorcycle who would be at the wedding. I was going to be a force, a vision of strength. An island. Never one who easily did ‘pretty,’ a went for cool. Black suit, sheer power-blouse. Catherine Hepburn.

The evening was happy. Happy enough. I had friends to sit with, many of us worked at the museum where the boat was moored. We were with our people. But I was alone. I felt it keenly despite not really missing the man who broke up with me. I approached him at the bar. Smiles, kiss kiss. ‘Are you well? Dating a lovely French girl, I hear. Congratulations.’ He told me how they met. I laughed and said ‘how romantic.’ I almost meant it.

When the dancing begun I thought a graceful early exit would be my move. Take my melancholy to the studio apartment I loved, having finally decided roommates were not my style. Then there she was, the bride. Cheeky shining, eyes glittering. Don’t leave she pleaded. Dance with me, she insisted. I ached to put my arm around my melancholy and take it home with me. Fine. One dance. 

Do you recall that I’m on a one hundred year old boat, below decks where the wool; the grain; the whiskey made their treks around Cape Horn? Now the guests shuffle and turn while the harbour nudges the boat from side to side while the wine nudges the dancers in equal measure.

We embraced and twirled. One twirl, maybe two. Then the harbour had its way. A foot tangled on an iron ballast. Hers. Mine. We went down. Bride in my arms. Bride on my arms. Embarrassment is a powerful force. I toppled the bride. The Irish poet was upon us, eyes flashing. Before he could scoop up his bride, I was on my feet offering my hand. Thus righted, we laughed I blushed. I eased out of the room. 

No sugar-coated almonds for me to remember the event. Rather, I sat in the coat room and felt the blood rush from my face. Event manager looks and says I’m green. I show her my arm, bluish. She says ‘Emergency Room,’ I say I will. I’ll head right over. Smart woman doesn’t let me drive. She leaves me there, at the ER, she has a wedding to oversee. Handsome doctor, or not pain is a powerful drug. I’m now delirious. One hundred and thirty pounds of bride and the iron ballast, my ulna in between. 

Surgery to pin it back together. Six months of rehab. My mother with me for a week, hopping on a plane from New York when she heard my tears. And the motorcycle man? Despite the French girlfriend whom he would one day marry, drove me to work for two weeks. His left arm in a sling from a surgery, my right in a sling from a bride. A foolish sight we made. Friends. I held my date with my melancholy but not that night and not for many nights to follow.