Once In a Lifetime
04/19 2000

I was sitting alone, studying the revelry with disinterest. The Danse was usually packed on Tuesday nights and tonight was no exception. Dozens of grrls and bois crowded the floor, some clinging desperately to one another trying to fill whatever gaping hole they fell into to get here. Others came simply to dance the night away, whether to the piped-in mix or to some chemical-induced symphony in their heads. All swaying in the contrived darkness like wind-stirred, monochrome trees of leather, lace, chrome, and PVC.

So far there hadn't been much to justify the evening. The dub sounded the same as last week's; which, in turn, was almost indistinguishable from any night over the past two months. Familiarity, I suppose, breeds the deepest contempt, and I was starting to hate this place more by the second.

Strangely, I couldn't bring myself to leave. While the night showed all the overt signs of being yet another pointless rerun, something wasn't meshing. Then it hit me: the Wailing Wall. As usual, the bank of monitors illuminating the dance floor was streaming the Misery Channel; no better way to get your daily dose of schadenfreude than human suffering broadcast live, 24-7. But the footage was years, even decades out of date.

At first I thought it must have been some sort of nostalgia thing: Great Disasters of History or something like that. Then I noticed the text crawl. Unbelievably, it said that they'd been forced to recycle content because absolutely nothing interesting had happened in almost twenty hours. I found that kinda odd, to say the least, but beyond idly wondering how that would effect their ratings, I didn't give it any further thought. Resigning myself to a wasted cover charge, I made ready to go. But then She walked in.

To say she was beautiful would be as close to blasphemy as I'm willing to get. Oh, she most certainly was beautiful, in as much as that's as close an approximation as our language has yet to express. Perhaps 'stunning' would be a better description, except that it implies unapproachable. And for whatever she was, unapproachable wasn't it. The aura of openness and familiarity was probably what first drew me in. I couldn't help but feel that I knew her from somewhere, though I couldn't, for the life of me, remember where or when I'd seen her before.

Even if she hadn't seemed so familiar, I would have had to meet her. She was every morboi's fever-dream: delicate features, perfect alabaster skin, and night-dark eyes that seems to reflect Forever. I supposed she was some sort of retro-gloomer, her clothes and makeup a dead-on imitation of what would have been called 'gothic' some fifty or so years ago. This did nothing but add to her charm.

She ordered a drink and leaned back on the bar while waiting for her order. My curiosity finally got the better of me and I decided to use the opportunity to introduce myself, hoping something would click. As I approached the bar, her face lit up and a smile spread across her kohl-black lips; reminding me, for some reason, of supernovas and fading galaxies. I immediately apologized for any intrusion but explained that I thought I should know her from somewhere and just had to know from where. She gave me an enigmatic smile and said that she gets that alot. She said she supposes she must just have that type of face. Finally remembering my manners, I introduced myself and asked her name. She said I should just call her Dee. I ask if that was short for anything; she says it was, but left it at that.

We fell into easy conversation, like were the oldest and closest of friends. Thought to be honest, I have trouble remembering everything we talked about. I do recall asking what brought her to the Danse Macabre and she said something about being on vacation, or it had something to do with work. I really wish I could remember; it seemed so important at the time.

It was nearly midnight and she said she had to go. I was quite disappointed, but she explained that she had to go meet someone and couldn't possibly be late. I made a passing joke about Cinderella, then scribbled my number on a napkin and handed it to her, asking that she call me when she had the chance. She gave me that soft smile once more and said she'd see what she could do, but that she doubted it could be any time soon.

I'll always remember the last time I saw her. Silhouetted there in the open doorway. The city lights gleaming dully on her soft, black hair. The whisper of voices like the fluttering of great wings.