It was four in the morning and they were dancing in the streets. I was confused at first, and watched from my window as she performed some sort of celebratory jig. I couldn’t help but feel a little envious of the fearlessly rogue street crossing that ensued, or how two people were having that much fun walking it out. They probably had really awesome Italian grandparents. Either way, La Esquina still wouldn’t let them go downstairs...so that happened.
It was as if they had been drinking gin and sodas all night, after three wrong orders of gin and tonic...even if it was the best gin behind the bar. They might have even had a dance-off on the d-floor...because when is a dance-off ever bad? He owed her a pedestal, even after he put her on one, and perhaps even a dinner that didn't involve a sports bar...but it didn’t suck. I think it should have been a good sign after the great white shark appeared at Spring Lounge, but apparently the Maritime Hotel has three dance floors, really bad cell phone reception, and mysterious wine-cork curtains. It also has a great meeting spot at the bathrooms, given you’re talking about the same bathrooms. Ariel views wouldn’t have even helped. But all in all, it was worth leaving the bottle he just bought for the night.
It’s as if he had to use a GPS tracker to find her, or maybe even a game of Marco-Polo, but when he did it was like finding an ipod-filled Easter egg in the middle of a fiercely competitive elbow-throwing hunt. This sort of thing would never happen above 14th Street. I kept thinking what type of rubble-rousers would pretend they were at an 8th grade dance formal, but then again who would think to wear a windbreaker jacket to Southside? It was the sort of thing that could even intimidate a girl with a Swiss army knife in her purse. But he had no chance. He should have known from the beginning; the irony of the pet shop next door might have said it all...
