Dancing with the Devil

Day 12 in Ireland, I think, my math is fuzzy.

So I’ve been inside all day tending to Reg who came down with a bad case of something as a result of walking around Dublin in the rain yesterday. Halloween was kind of a bust but it goes that way sometimes and as a result of my nurse duties I missed most of what has been the most beautiful day on the island thus far. But as I said to Reg (who can’t talk back) there’s still no where I’d rather be than by her side, that’s just kind of how love makes you feel.

To illustrate why I feel this way let me tell you about the other night. We had the house pretty much to ourselves and seeing as there wasn’t anywhere we’d rather be we parked ourselves in the living room and put a bag of coals on the fire. As it burned we relaxed with Thai food and a couple of drinks while we watched “Clue” the ‘85 movie with Tim Curry, if you haven’t seen it then please please please do me a favor and get your hands on a copy asap, it’s a joy. Curled up on the couch, watching a movie, sated and cozy, what more could you want?

Well, there’s one thing that always makes thing better in Ireland; Music. Now I could go on for pages upon pages about the magic that is an Irish Trad. Band flowing through a session tucked deep in the corners of a tightly packed pub, and with some luck I will do just that at a later date. But that night we did not put on anything from Reggie’s homeland, instead, Reg whipped up a play list with the likes of Tom Waites and the Rolling Stones and we let the night begin to smolder.

Mind you Regina is a somewhat trained celi-dancer (pronounced Kay-Lee, I can’t type Irish on this keyboard) and in her own way has quite a few moves at her disposal that fall outside the realm of ancient celtic arts. So She, in a sexy pair of high heeled boots no less, starts to swing and kick her way all around the wooden floor of the living room. I, being a proud descendant of Italian chestnut farmers, simply could not let a pretty girl dance alone and got up to join her. Now, I’m no Astaire or even a poor man’s MC Hammer but all the same I felt obligated to hold my own in the seduction that is dance.

Admittedly I was hindered by the fact that I was wearing my socks so I ran upstairs to fetch some hard soled shoes and my bowler hat, pairing those with a slim pair of black jeans and a black tank top and I have to say I was one cane and a little guy-liner away from being a cabaret idol. In an obvious fit of jealousy Reg bolted upstairs and returned a few minutes later wearing a bob-length, cold-fusion blue wig. Now it was ON! She and I started cutting loose in what was clearly a two horse race for king and or queen of the dance floor. She bobbed, I wove, I twisted, she kicked, she boogied, I woogied and soon we were both sweaty and silly on the inebriation that only a good dance off can provide.

By will of the cosmic forces of the universe two people really can connect when wrapped up in a dance and somehow Reg and I seemed to be reading the same choreography sheets. Caught in the heady energy and enslaved by the Bangles ‘walk like an Egyptian’ we danced on and on until we finally collapsed in a fit of fanning and panting. And there as the embers glowed on, as the rum bottle got slowly emptier, as the songs began to repeat themselves, we lost all sense of time and place and were absorbed by the all consuming happiness which will, if you are lucky, overtake you at one point or another but only after you’ve forgotten all of your pretences and lost yourself in rhythms.