_You danced. And frankly, you looked ridiculous. You didn't win any awards. You didn't set any records. Oh, people noticed you, all right. What was that, the getting-riddledwith-bullets dance? You looked like you were having some kind of convulsion! Or a fake orgasm. You were wearing a toga. You went crazy and whipped the fabric around as you gyrated. You slicked back your sweaty hair with your hands as you flailed. You spun around and around. I fell in love with you that night, though you didn't know I existed. I was right there in your ear but you couldn't hear me. The music was too loud. Songs from your parents' exciting times. What was that one song, the four-hearted, fullthroated harmony song that sounded like it sprang right out of the spring? Aaaaaaaaaahhh... the notes piled on top of each other like lovers in the hay. Lovers. You had never had a lover, toga boy. Spin! Jump! Swirl! Dance!_ _It wasn't until tomorrow that you began to feel remorse. Shame? Did you look back and see them laughing at you? Did you figure out how dumb you must have looked? Could you not believe that fool was you? Could you scarcely picture yourself ever being that foolish again? Did something at the base of your spine, deeper in than a backrub could touch, tighten up? It wasn't until tomorrow that you began to think about what you did—and then my lifelong vigil began._