The party included a jam session upstairs, with people cycling through all of the instruments, jumping on and off the mic. I played the tambourine, and I met a woman there, a jazzy, hip musical burnout with a swagger and fantastic lips. She and I shared a night of awkward flirting, mostly because I was outclassed. I don’t know her name. And I was into that, and I’ll never see her again, and I’m just as into that.

She’s going to be with me for a while. A week, a month maybe. I’ll replay the tape a bunch of times. And I’ll put it on my blog. And I’ll refuse to give her a name, and mostly I’ll remember that swagger, that melting step. That deliberate swing. And I’ll attribute it to the booze, but secretly hope she has it on the train in the morning.

And that’s the cool part. Because I’m touched by experience, and because I didn’t stand in the corner all evening, and because it was awkward, and because it’s all a dream in the end, why would I ever suspect I couldn’t do whatever I wished? And if I can and I don’t, what stays my hand? And don’t you all share the same power? And why shouldn’t that be wonderfully terrifying?

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