There was magic in those days. Friday nights were magical; they began casting their spell on me during afternoon classes, beckoning to me with ethereal fingers, reaching for my mind to steal it away from anything as meaningless as studies. Friday nights were magical, because SHE would appear.
SHE was the goddess of the D.Y.O. Dances. I waited in the dimly-lit gym, a trembling hand clasping my Pepsi. Rock music heralded HER arrival. I bowed my head in reverence. I scarcely dare look up, lest be blinded by HER beauty.
When she finally floated into the gym, carried along by some mystical force beneath her otherworldly feet, I became completely mesmerized. SHE was the reason for the dance. SHE was the meaning of life itself. Without HER I would not exist.
Some of the other kids greeted HER. They seemed so relaxed in HER presence, chatting and laughing with HER as if SHE was as imperfect and mortal as they. Didn’t they know they were in the presence of a goddess?
Someone shook my shoulder.
“Why don’t you ask her to dance?” A friend was saying.
“Ask HER to dance?” I replied. What an absurd suggestion. Me? A mere mortal? Dance with a goddess? I was privileged just to be there in HER presence. Ask HER to dance. I think not!
I ran across HER years later. SHE had gained some weight. SHE spoke to me. I spoke to HER—and I didn’t even crumble to dust. Hmmmmm.