Dedicated to my friend Sourgirl – poetess, writer, and fellow music enthusiast whose life ebbs and flows to the sweet soundtrack of melody.
She had told me she was a “Brickhouse.” I told her I wasn’t really a Commodores fan but I’d pick her up after the “Nightshift” and that I always bring flowers on the first date.
She liked that I could keep up with her musical sensibilities and pop culture references. It made her smile each time. She told me I was old – though we were the same age. I always made a point to bring that up but she told me I was an old soul, and effectively, an older soul than she.
I tried to argue but it was futile cause she would interrupt me by slipping her hand into mine and pulling me close. This interrupted my thought process, which she thoroughly enjoyed.
“You’re a nice guy,” she said.
”Nice guys finish last,” I replied.
“I’ve seen you run and you do okay,” she reminded me. “You run faster than I do.”
”Only because my legs are longer,” I said.
“Maybe I like seeing you from behind,” she said with a smile.
The comment made me blush.
I noticed her wearing socks while standing on the wooden floor in her tank top and shorts.
I put on “Into the Mystic” by Van Morrison on the speaker system. It was my favorite song off the Moondance album and a close second for her.
I knew she’d dance to her all her favorite songs, regardless of where she was or what she was doing, and as if on queue, she began.
She surely “rocked my gypsy soul” watching her move around the room. Her body was made for dancing and every fiber of it flowed effortlessly as Van’s golden Irish voice filled the room.
”Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?” I asked her playfully.
”Why yes, as I recall, you have taken me for many a Moondance,” she reminded me.
And with that, noticing me in socks, she pulled me by both hands “Into The Mystic” of her imaginary ballroom as Van Morrison serenaded us both.