ella, louis, and frank

on that thursday night, he wanted to go dancing. i had been driving north on pch and turned around to follow the coast back south to santa monica or venice for some late night jams. we flew through a few patches of low cloud and let the fog lights guide the way. there was no moon that night, and the stars above us dimmed as they stretched towards the horizon. los angeles projected its brights up from earth, turning the first third of the sky a smokey green.

a desire to listen to the waves took us to the side of the road. i dug my shoeless feet into his sides and hopped on his back for a ride to the edge. the winding coast hid the city from our sights and i doubt anyone would have heard me had i screamed. (i didn't.)

back in my roommate's car, he changed cd's and smiled (god, it's so beautiful when the boy smiles). "would it be worth putting your shoes on for a dance?" i loathe sneakers, but i'd do anything for a dance. reaching towards the steering wheel, he turned on the headlights, which cut through the black morning air to reveal our gravel clifftop dance floor. down went the windows. up went the volume. out stepped clare.

for the next hour, the drivers of each car that passed a certain viewpoint north of pepperdine caught a glimpse of two jazz-inspired 20-something silhouettes swinging the night away in the highbeams of a honda. they then wondered why they themselves weren't dancing- weren't living- as we were, deep into the midnight hour. i hope they rolled down their windows as singsingsing faded, breathed in the salt air, and remembered the last time they wasted hours on pleasure.

(it is no longer thursday, and i am sitting at my computer in my red polkadot underwear promising myself that days between dances will be few.)