We don’t talk about (oh, yes we do)
11/11/25 10:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alasanonI went dancing on the second for the first time, I think, maybe since the pandemic? Maybe it had been less time than that, maybe it had been more. Either way, I needed to change my address and marvel at how little had changed.
I was up there to see a beautiful duo in a tiny subterranean venue, even though I was so tired and so alone, in a room full of people dressed like fancy pirates. I did my best, I wore bloomers and stripes, but I’m out of the habit these days. It didn’t really matter, they were wonderful. I’d follow them about and watch them again and again.
But dancing. It took me a minute to remember the hang of it, the sway of my body and swirl of my skirt (so strange, to be wearing a dress again after so very long). And that space is full of memories, years and years of them, both good and bad. But Tuesdays, you know, are often empty (friends, it was a Sunday, but honestly, they’re similar enough in that liminal way) and I picked it up again.
It felt good. I was tired, I was sweaty, I couldn’t stay out too late, but it was familiar in a comforting way. Agonizing too, there was no way to avoid thinking about the people who are long gone from my life, of the silly dramas of my twenties, of the drift of my thirties.
The floor was a chessboard long after the Alice event. The last remnants have finally worn away, thumped to fragments under the heels of countless boots.
I was up there to see a beautiful duo in a tiny subterranean venue, even though I was so tired and so alone, in a room full of people dressed like fancy pirates. I did my best, I wore bloomers and stripes, but I’m out of the habit these days. It didn’t really matter, they were wonderful. I’d follow them about and watch them again and again.
But dancing. It took me a minute to remember the hang of it, the sway of my body and swirl of my skirt (so strange, to be wearing a dress again after so very long). And that space is full of memories, years and years of them, both good and bad. But Tuesdays, you know, are often empty (friends, it was a Sunday, but honestly, they’re similar enough in that liminal way) and I picked it up again.
It felt good. I was tired, I was sweaty, I couldn’t stay out too late, but it was familiar in a comforting way. Agonizing too, there was no way to avoid thinking about the people who are long gone from my life, of the silly dramas of my twenties, of the drift of my thirties.
The floor was a chessboard long after the Alice event. The last remnants have finally worn away, thumped to fragments under the heels of countless boots.
