you send me

Mama and her older sister - 15 months older - are dancing to Sam Cooke in the living room, while their generation-younger husbands (also brothers) work getting the house ready for their mutual move. Mama leaves for Florida on Tuesday, and Aunt Claudine moves here, into this house in Georgia.

But right now it's time to dance.

They're telling me about teen-clubs in the sixties where they'd dance until their hair dripped of sweat. Both of them can still wobble and shake.

They'd be irritated as hell to see me dance, because it would look sloppy to them. But they'd be more irritated at the boys these days since none of them know how to lead.

Mama said she'd fall in love six times on the dance floor, and Aunt Claudine said whoever danced best determined who you went out to the car with.

The boys knew how to woo.

I'm hoping if I go to some of the honky-tonks outside Bloomington I'll find a cowboy who knows how to lead, because none of the boys I know can dance (i.e. George: to dance with him is to dance with his cock).

If I ever am lead to the dance floor by a man who can even remotely dance then I will stay in his arms all night.

But the wooing is really all I'm after. Fellas love wooing me, and then they are weary of me once I'm devoted. I guess it take all the fun out of it for them.

Regardless, I need to be danced with.