top floor of the library, watching, in the darkening dusk, tens of students on the lawn learn how to hoppity-doppity swing dance like the baddest of beginners. my heart swells with excitement and jealousy as muscle memory overpowers my limbs like an incipient perfume and i feel like i’m holding in a poop. ear pressed to the thick glass to hear the trumpets in the music, i idly draw hearts in the dust on the sill.
we used to dance and teach others to dance. a plague that spread, we breathed deeply the spores and became teachers. rushing to gatherings like we were in search of drugs, to the center of dance rings like we were getting paid, to new venues and styles— aerials to fly above the average dancers—
i look over at my man, helluva dancer, and tell him how distracted i feel up here. he bites his thumbnail and lifts his chin to squint out the window. ducking back into his cubicle, he holds hands with his keyboard, courting the words of his current paper. knuckling the small of his back as he snuggles in and fixes his hair. but i don’t think he’s having as much fun as he would be, dancing out there with me.