IÕm dancing with a round-eyed statue. In a turquoise dress my grandmother knitted, red beads around my neck, flowered stockings on my legs. Blue lashes, happy tears. Last night.
Smoke eyes, they sting. People watchers, me and her. My friend with the Roxie curls. Talking for hours about people. My painted lips and hers, moving around words spewing about everyone around us. We think we know everything about everyone, and in the world of rock critics and music geeks and gorgey hipsters maybe we almost do. WeÕre watching the boys behind us. Their hair is all too long, but we think it looks pretty. The one with the big nose and bluey eyes is lighting up a joint and my body aches for the bitter tasty smoke in my lungs. Bitter tasty smoke coming from the school with the flowery name; where weÕd fit in perfectly, but avoid. EveryoneÕs pretentious there. Full of themselves and their friends and the cool way they all look and the cool joints they all smoke and the cool bands they all listen to and the cool art they all make. ItÕs fake, really. Though maybe deep down we are art school kids. But weÕd rather be the only ones. Far away at school separate. Fitting in but not quite, in our own way. Laughing in the same voice, but about something completely different. We dance to our own stoned rock beats in our heads. Except for when we are together here, with all these strangers, people we love.
Then him. Eyes lowered. Beautiful eyes lowered. His leg shoots out slowly. Head tosses back, like a diamond dancer dog, like somebody who everyone is in love with. We are silent, all watching. And I think he knows how beautiful he is. He is conscious of they way he looks, and how he sings and moves. He can see himself from outside the beautiful lowered eyes. Everything is calculated but when you put it all together itÕs perfect. HeÕs a perfectly stoned rock star. And I forgive him because itÕs all for rock and roll.