I was 20-ish when I developed a fixation with a dancer
Whose stage name was "DIANALITHIUM." Things got bad and worse in my line of luck. I found songs which reminded of the effortless grace she used her shake or how she whispered things in my ear as I lounged on Pervert Row (this is before we had MP3's, friends-so it set me back a couple of bucks.)

I named her left breast Cruella because, well-she usually leaned to one side and I never got to see quite enough of it. With a designated driver in tow, I got high on some Sam Adams and pledged my love to her. She walked away, disappearing into No Man's Land-whatever room lurks behind those mirrors. When she danced again, she acted as though she were being electrocuted by the pole-I mean she was amazing and I finally got my share of Cruella.

When she sat at the table-I knew what had happened, a movie moment for the first time in my life. She had spent the better part of a year watching the fat man with the faraway eyes gaze dreamily and dig crumpled ones out of his pocket. She remembered the time the disc jockey called him out in front of the packed club for the amazed look on his face. Now her former customer had spilled it all and she went backstage, probably for one of those soul draining cries that put Price is Right Showcase winner's to shame and came out dancing, reacting like the air brushed against her raw emotions. I gave her a hopeful smile and she kissed my cheek.

On the turning away, I half expected us to leave together with what she had on. We would rush to kiss under a street lamp in the alley, kick the heartaches of the world in the crotch and…
And then came the dreaded friendly shoulder pat-

"Thanks for tonight." She smiled.

"This night doesn't end, doll." (Trying to put on my best beer and smoke rasp)

"I've never laughed so hard in my laugh." She said.

Then I realized why her eyes were welling and why I would never have a movie moment.