Jan’s Birthday
It’s been nearly three months I’ve been with Jan. Today was his birthday. I wanted to do something special for him, which is kind of hard to arrange when you’re two bums sleeping in the park. But I’d been saving up and I was determined to make it something good.
Of course, when you spend all your time with someone, it’s impossible to surprise them with anything of any elaborateness, so I figured the open approach would be best. I asked him what he wanted.
And an hour later we were back in the park, sitting at a bench with the small battery stereo between us.
“Music is important,” he said, “And we don’t get much. I think it would do you some good to unwind too.”
He tuned the radio to some rock music I didn’t recognize. And then he started dancing: the wild, uninhibited dance of one who knows that a hot pink fox is going to attract attention whatever he does, and thus goes whole hog. And, sure, some people stopped to watch—or laugh—but most had better things to do and paid no attention.
Nevertheless when he tried to oust me from my seat, I resisted. “Shiny men can’t dance,” I said. “Can’t I just admire you?”
He gave me that sweet smile that always made me feel brighter. “Here,” he said. “I’ll make it easy on you.” And he turned the dial to something slow and classical, which again I didn’t recognize. “May I have this dance, monsieur?” he said, reaching out a paw in my direction I couldn’t turn down.
He held me to him and led me through the steps of a dance so complicated I knew he must have studied. His eyes held mine for a moment and I took the moment to kiss him. I had to, of course. His eyes, shining as always with my light, were such a deep, deep blue, and I knew I didn’t want to let him go.
He picked up the stereo and led us back behind our bush. He held me there, kissing me, till we both passed out at dawn.