Where I went to school, boys – men – didn’t dance. Not unless they were full of whisky bluster or beer bravado, anyway, and certainly not the way he was, his lithe body a study in confident, soft, expressive masculinity.
Every morning he switches on the radio to my favourite station. He hopes it will help. Most of the time I barely notice it.
I’m exhausted and out of breath. I don’t even know where I am anymore. Have I missed my stop? I wouldn’t know.
I wasn’t a fan of his music, but I went along to impress the new fella in my life.
I never learn her name and I never speak to her. I don’t change my tutorial time so that I can be in a tute with her, the way I had done in my American History unit the previous semester with a boy who’d caught my eye in much the same way.
Sometimes salvation can be found in the unlikeliest of songs. I find the one I want in the playlist, the one you call your dancing song, and turn it up loud.
If we had hours rather than minutes, we would listen to music through the tinny TV speakers, tucked up together under blankets on the mattress, arguing over the best of British.
You flick through my CDs with the kind of thought and care people put into choosing a name for their child. An appreciative smile rests briefly on my lips as you insert the disc into the car stereo. I don’t even care what you’ve chosen, I just love that it took you so long to choose