Valentine's dance

At 10:30 yesterday morning the phone rang. It was Joan in the florist downstairs.

"I have a delivery for you," she said.

I figured it was a parcel from a delivery man who didn't know which doorbell to push, but when I got downstairs she had a bunch of roses and a big smile. Joan knows I love roses. Sometimes she'll give me one that's too fullblown to sell.

"That was easy," she said.

There was no card, but I knew who they were from.

The afternoon didn't go so well. I had envisioned making something for Danny, who would be arriving in the evening, but my printer wouldn't work properly. I had a series of small mishaps, then as I headed out the door to pick him up from the bus station, I knocked the roses flying across the kitchen floor. At least the vases didn't break. But I was nearly in tears.

I was startled to feel my emotions so close to the surface. It's a good thing, isn't it? I spent my childhood carefully containing them, proving to the world I wasn't a sissy. And I wasn't a sissy, but I had a heart. Repression is a major source of the depression, I believe.

After dinner we went to the Valentine's dance. The chorus holds this monthly fundraiser, but I haven't made it to one since October. It's an interesting contrast from the focus and intensity of weekly rehearsals to see my fellow choristers letting loose. Margie and Sue are high energy, all over the dance floor. Mo dances herself to a sweat in her own world. So do I, when I have the energy.

I had it last night, more than I've had in a long time. I love energy music, some of the quirky ones like "Cotton-eyed Joe." And man, my favourite feel-good song is "Walking on Sunshine." I haven't felt that good, in that way, for ages.

I used to smoke up sometimes with Bob around the corner of the union hall. I didn't need it last night. It was a buzz just moving among the dark shadows of bodies. While I was volunteering on floor detail between 10 and 11 we ran out of snack food, so I had to drive across town to Ultra Food and Drug to pick up three bags of plain chips and three bags of party mix. I opened one of the latter on the way back and started sucking it down like I was stoned. Really, I was just happy, and feeling happy to be happy in a social setting. Sometimes I'm a wilted flower in the corner, but last night I moved among my friends freely, greeting and chatting, knowing this is where I want to be on a Friday evening: at a queer dance in a small town where the whole community comes together, not just a small sector. I love the diversity of my friends.

Danny doesn't dance much, but he enjoyed watching me enjoy myself, and seeing some of my friends again. Unfortunately Jon wasn't there; he had to work late at his new job as meat manager at the brand new Sobey's in Kitchener. Neither were Sylvie and Sarah; Sylvie has to work at 3 a.m. on Saturday mornings, baking bread for the small grocer downtown.

We came home at midnight and showered. As we crawled into bed, he said, "I hope I don't fall asleep on you."

I felt cleansed and content.

"Sleep is okay," I said, then added, "Do you want me to keep you awake?"

He nodded yes, and so I did.