January 2, 2015

My dearest,

“Don’t you guys go to clubs?” our friend ask us.

“Not really,” you answer, “it’s not my thing.”

No, it’s not. But it did use to be my thing, years ago, before we met. Clubs were nice for dancing, even if I did hate the constant clouds of cigarette smoke and the alcohol stink. Dancing was freedom, was the rhythm, was the music … and I smile at this line, this train of thought. You would say that it’s very “Life for Beginners” of me, this way I write, this way I speak. I would protest, of course, to little heed.

You’re right though. There’s a certain way about me, something you’ve mimicked for amusement in the past. I suspect you enjoy it nonetheless. And I don’t miss dancing these days. I prefer our mundane routine, our very dull daily lives. I remember coming home alone at night, after a round or two at the clubs, and there’s nothing I miss about that.

Better to come home with you, me driving, and yes oh yes, your hand in mine for part of the journey, and us taking off our shoes and going our own ways, each to his own computer, and … and you’d make fun of me for writing this too, wouldn’t you?

And that’s better than dancing alone.

I nod, and tell our friend, “Nope, clubs aren’t really my thing either”, and smile at you.

Yours, ever and always.