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.

My pale, Nordic friend, Dahlia, arrives on the station platform in Goa in late afternoon. We embrace each other in the brilliant sun, surprised to see each other in this place. I hold her trim, wiry body tight against me, surprised she’s really here.

After we dated for a few months, Miguel told me that when he saw me for the first time he immediately thought, “I hope she’s single and speaks Czech.” Only one was true.