Dancing to our graves
Mom made me waffles for brunch yesterday and then we both took a nap on the couch. I came home and put up some hooks, and did some laundry, and got some work done, and then began the pull. R called from the bar at LaVita and said she had spent most of the weekend alone and was in need of social contact. G said she had no food in her house. I walked in with F behind the bar and a table full of young lesbians making a raucous noise – F said what am I going to do? – I said I’ll go talk to them since I know a few of them. They said they had been at their respective family houses all day and they needed to cut loose. I said I understand that. So I went back to the bar and told F that when other patrons came in and if they were still acting up, I’d go talk to them again.
Then J came in with B&K and we all got a big round table – and M and D and Y came back from the Noodle House – F brought out a big pizza on the house – and we opened Sangiovese and ordered Fatma salads of roasted vegetables and white beans. And then D turned up the music – from Spain – with an infectious beat – and we were all up dancing – everyone – a couple at a table was eating but then they got up to dance – and then the cooks came out of the kitchen – a young Spanish boy who moved his hips as if they were a weapon – and T with her furry pony tail holders whose young son L has been at the restaurant a few times when she couldn’t get a sitter and I gave her my number and said if you run into a snag again I’m down the street and can come get him – and we danced – and we just couldn’t stop dancing.
La Vita – here we are on Sunday night dancing to our graves – makes all the sense to me.