Rhapsodies of the Barefooted Gypsy

A Dance With A Boy (Preface)

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If two weeks ago, someone told me that that boy, with short yellow hair, who started showing up at salsa nights at Bian Caffe approximately five months ago–yes, that same boy who always seems to be wearing a different variation of a red shirt every time I happen to run into him at any salsa social, and who always, always manages to sit in the same corner, the same corner that just happens to be exactly opposite my corner–and I will be dating, I swear I’ll be like, are you fucking kidding me? Because ha ha ha, that is so unfunnily offensive in so many levels:

1. I don’t know his name, and I don’t think he knows mine because–
2. We never ever danced, not once, and that leads us to–
3. He never ever asked me to dance. Not even once. And besides–
4. Even if we pretend that I know his name and he knows mine, and say that we’ve danced not just once, the idea of dating him or him dating me will be the last thing on my mind considering that–
5. I’ve just had a beautiful breakup with my beautiful Sicilian boyfriend who I’ve had a beautifully crafted four-month relationship with from the night I met him at a beautiful salsa party in Sydney.

So, seriously, ha ha ha. That’s the lamest attempt at a joke ever and the punch line is not even funny!

Until it is.

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