I have a favorite memory stitched into a dress I should have never donated. It was midi-length, the sort of style Betty Draper might wear in season one of Mad Men, attending an advertiser dinner party with Don. The colors were vivid kelly green, the brightest white, and deep black, with a layer of black tulle that peeked out beneath the skirt. I wore kelly green jewel earrings, classic black stilettos, fuchsia lips and nails, and I remember my first drink in it at the open bar of the wedding we were attending.
A girl came up beside me and said, “I heard you were the person to speak to… about dancing?”
I set my drink down, eyes wide with delight, and said without hesitation, “I am! Are you inclined to dance?”
I remember her smile, her tattoos, her effortless style against my more manicured one.
“I am!” she laughed.
“Wait, who are you with?”
She pointed to the brother of the groom.
“Oh! Cute,” I said, taking her arm confidently. “Well, he was right. I am always the first person on the dance floor,” I began, uninvited, but I assumed she wanted to hear it. “I don’t see the point of attending a wedding if you’re not going to dance.”
“I agree completely,” she nodded, solemn and sparkly at once.
“And we don’t take our shoes off.” I added.
“Of course!” She squeezed my arm.
“Then we’re going to be good friends.”
Naturally the champagne I drank before the toast (and after) made us bond faster than we might have otherwise. But I loved that girl for that night, and I don’t even remember her name.
(Daily Writing 058)
Thoughts?