Charlotte

there I was, rattling along on through the grey English drizzle, the underground tube train clicking under my feet, when I spotted her across the aisle—dark hair falling wild, eyes like midnight streets—and I leaned over, heart beating that crazy beat, and asked if I could take a photo of her, just a quick one or two, black and white, the shadows deep and honest, cropped tight like life itself cuts you.

she said yes, soft, with a smile that lit the whole damn car.

“Do you like to dance?” she asked, voice rolling out like smoke from a late-night club.

“Yeah,” I said, “but only that old 70s disco, you know, the real stuff, Bee Gees wailing, lights flashing, bodies moving like they’re praying to the beat.”

“What about house music?” she said, leaning in. “it’s similar to disco, all pulse and sweat.”

and man, we blew into it then, words flying fast as the countryside blurring past the window—London scene exploding with bass and ecstasy kids, Paris all chic and underground caves, Munich thumping hard in those beer-soaked halls, the people wild different, venues hidden in warehouses or glittering atop rooftops, and those late-night food stands after the clubs shut down, steam rising, hungry souls lining up under neon.

she smiled again, that smile hitting me like a saxophone solo, long and sweet.

“there’s a drum and bass party in old street tonight,” she said, eyes shining. “Will you dance with me there, real close, and I’ll cook you breakfast tomorrow, eggs and coffee and all.”

“Only if I can do the dishes,” I shot back, grinning like a fool in the rain.

her name was Charlotte, blown in from New York city, that mad island of dreams, a journalist chasing stories like I chase words, and Lord, she had a beautiful chest rising under that thin sweater, beautiful like the curve of a highway at twilight, calling a man onward into the night.

grabbed her number,
danced drunk, ate greasy breakfast,
got married in June