I saw you across the dance floor. That was back in 1977/78/79. We were in some disco in Manhattan/Yonkers/Brooklyn. You were tall and dark/compact and fair. The way you danced with that Puerto Rican girl floored me. You barely moved. The song was “There, But for the Grace of God” by Machine, an angry, loud song, but you managed to remain so cool/suave/sexy.

I know it’s been so many years, but I want to rekindle what I felt when you let go of your partner and walked toward me. I was dancing with another Italian/Puerto Rican/Arab guy. I looked into your brown/blue/green eyes and felt something electric. It was like that Sylvester song: you made me feel mighty real. You put your hand on the small of my back and pulled my body into yours in a tango move, slowly lowering me into a dip. By that time, the DJ had segued into “Do It till You’re Satisfied.” I stretched my left leg up in the air as I leaned back, trusting your embrace, my hair brushing against the floor. Someone whistled. Like that moment out of Saturday Night Fever, the dance floor cleared to give us more space. That was a sign of recognition. We knew what the hell we were doing.

I remember the feel of your strong/capable/delicate hands as you placed them on my hips. You pulled my body toward and away, toward and away. I can still hear my Capezios clicking on the wooden floor. I was known for being a great spinner. You pushed me to go faster and faster as I spotted you, looking at your smile/ your eyes/ your perfect hair, my full skirt rising higher and higher. I laughed, knowing I had outdone myself. A couple of your friends, watching from the sidelines, hooted. Finally, it was too much, and you knew it, too. I lost control, laughing, my arm untucking, my footing unsure. You ended my spin, my skirt slapping against my upper thighs. You let me recover by pulling me in again, your hand on my lower back. Instead of looking over your shoulder, I tipped my head back. Who was this wunderkind of the dance floor? Again, something electric coursed down my spine. I was so close I could see the black/brown/blond stubble shadowing your white/tanned/brown skin. You saw me and winked/smiled. I giggled and rested my head on your shoulder. 

When the congas signaled the beginning of “Push, Bush in the Bush”/ “I Love Music,” I knew I wasn’t up for another song. You knew it, too, and relaxed your embrace. I slid out of your arms. We walked backward a few steps, still looking at each other before returning to our respective friends gathered in clusters on the edge of the dance floor. A couple of your friends clapped. But when I looked again for your face/hair/suit, I couldn’t find you. I never saw you again, though your friends remained. Why didn’t I ask them who you were? 

Over the years, I hoped one day I’d see you again on the subway/in the supermarket/at the gym, but it’s been 45/44/43 years. Are you still handsome/sexy/graceful? I wanted you to know: your every detail is etched into my memory.   

Joanne Furio is a writer/journalist/college adjunct who spent too many nights in discos. So much so, she is now teaching a course on the subject at Saint Mary's College of California, where she received here MFA in creative writing in 2016. Her creative nonfiction has been published in Believer and Evening Street Review, and on Catapult, Juked, and Panoply among others.