On This Day 23 Years Ago - December 18

Ghost: The Dancer & the Musician

Remember how I told you that my body is haunted by the Ghosts of Myselves Past? That Traumatic Brain Injury can alter someone to the point where they no longer feel like the same person—where even to their loved ones, they don’t seem like the same person? This is one of the most difficult things to navigate in a TBI like mine.

Let’s go back in time twenty-three years ago on this very day and meet the girl who vanished on a dark highway when a drunk driver blasted through her bumper.

Do I like her better than who I’ve become?

No.

Do I miss her?

Of course.

If I could wave a magic wand and change what happened, would I?

Mmmmph. In spite of it all, I actually wouldn’t. That doesn’t mean I don’t still grieve. Especially at this time of year during this anniversary season.

Fall 2000

FIVE-STAR FROLICS

I have only been to a five-star restaurant twice in my life. One of them is that time when I got flown to New York City to film my Warrior Princess dance with World Dance NY.¹ Hmmm...that was right about this time of year, too. During that fast-n-furious turn-around trip, my hosts drove me past the ginormous Christmas tree, through Times Square, past the Empire State Building, and I got to experience a NYC subway, complete with graffiti, snoozing guy, and urine-coated floor.

But that was sixteen years ago.

Twenty-three years ago, I was dining in a five-star restaurant in Colorado Springs. It was just past my birthday and the man I had recently started dating took me to dinner at a swanky jazz joint where we shared small, ornate meals with large, ornate price tags.

I think I lean too heavily into my practical Capricorn cusp to fully appreciate paying that much for food, no matter how good it is, just like I can’t fathom the exorbitant price of new jeans. I’m a thrift store girl, all the way. To my delight, my date felt the same way about our dinner. We enjoyed the novel experience but neither of us could quite justify the price tag.

At the end of the night, he walked me up the stairs of my new, second-floor apartment. I had just moved there a month-and-a-half before, after obtaining a new job.

Everything in my life was new that season. Job, home, man, mindset.

I'd never been able to afford a two-bedroom apartment before, but getting hired by a local internet company as their office manager had given me a raise that bumped me into a new financial bracket.

So had my increase in performance hours—I was dancing 2-4 nights a week between restaurant gigs and private parties. My decision to stop teaching weekly dance classes in favor of monthly workshops had clinched it. Students were just too wishy-washy, and I had wound up spending more in studio rent than I made teaching.

Switching to workshops allowed me to teach the more advanced topics that I’d been wanting to share for years to the most dedicated of the students—and make considerably more money than I had in weekly classes. My first two workshops had proven the decision both inspiring and lucrative. I even had students preregistered for January's workshop, and many looked forward to the other topics I had coming down the pipe. They especially looked forward to Sword Dance in March.

So did I. It was my favorite prop, and one of my top specialties.

My private lessons were also picking up, seeing as how I had created a dedicated dance space out of the living room in my new, big apartment. I also turned the second bedroom into a space for writing and sewing costumes. As soon as the living room was ready to decorate, I planned to tack up the thirty 2X2 ft mirrored tiles I’d received as a present.

As it was, boxes were stacked nose-high against what would eventually by the Mirror Wall. Between all my work and dance hours, I still wasn't close to being moved in. I didn't mind. I was just thrilled to be in this new space.

After that five-star dinner, it was into this organized mess that I invited Galen Leyforth.

Ohhhhh...Galen Heartthrob.

Six-and-a-half feet tall, platinum blonde hair down to his ass, and dark piercing eyes. He was the front man for one of his bands, did rhythm guitar and backup vocals in two others. If the Fellowship of the Rings movie had been out one year earlier, I would have said that he would give Legolas a run for his money.

Galen actually looks more like Haldir, but is considerably taller, and he has Elrond's voice, Elrond's stare. Elegant and cool, poised and formal, he wields a vocabulary that rivals mine, as well as an equally inquisitive mind. As we got to know each other, I discovered him to be just as passionate about his art as I am about mine. Potential union with him carried the seeds of the most storybook romance ever told: the Dancer and the Musician.

So how did we meet?

Let me tell you.

---

6 WEEKS EARLIER

November 4, 2000
27 years old

You know how super-swank, high-fallootin’ parties and certain types of ritzy-rich people get portrayed in movies? The snubbing and the cold shoulders and the sneering down upturned noses? Until this night, I had always chocked it up to overblown Hollywood fantasy.

Let me assure you. That shit is straight out of real life.

"Let me introduce you around," she chirps, taking me by the arm with her mostest-hostess smile. She's the only person I've ever met here, and I'm supposed to spend the next hour mingling with the crowd, letting them get an up-close-look at Scheherazade-in-their-midst. She's hired me as part of the entertainment for this annual charity gala at one of the swankiest event centers in town. This year, their theme is Arabian Nights, hence: me.

With all these glamorous women in their up-dos and sequined ball gowns splashing rainbows across the sea of black tuxedoes, I actually blend in quite well, considering that I'm in a belly dance costume. I've chosen my most expensive, spangly one, the turquoise-and-silver Turkish two-piece with the hourglass mermaid line. The sides of the built-in belt/skirt are cutout latticework; the fringy detail is a coral reef of rhinestones, sequins, and shimmering silver beads. I am laden with more frippery than three of these ladies combined.

Mother Nature Photography

Of course, I've draped the turquoise half-circle veil across one shoulder and tucked it into my belt for now. I don't think a bare midriff would really do for this cocktail party. Neither will bare feet, so I've donned my silver heels.

Our hostess brings me to a circle of ladies and introduces me around. A couple of them ooh and aah over my costume and exotic role. But when they see someone they know across the room, they leave us with three remaining women. This trio sidles closer to our hostess, pelting her with questions about some other event I've never heard of.

And then it happens.

The blonde to my right glances down at me over her shoulder. In three-inch magenta heels that match her equally mermaidy dress, she has the perfect vantage point from which to narrow her eyes and sneer down her nose with the classic pursed lips. With an annoyed sigh, she arcs her nose ceiling-ward as if moving is ever-so-beneath her but she will do what she must.

Then she shifts sideways. The spectacular beaded back of her gown overtakes the breadth of my vision. Her stiletto heel clips the toe of my shoe, and I have to quick scoot backwards to prevent having her in my vertical lap.

My brows hoist up toward my velvet headband. My eyes have a little trouble blinking. I'm pretty sure my gaping gob could house about five of those jumbo shrimp over yonder at the snack table.

I blink again and stare harder.

Yup. I have just literally been edged out of a conversation.

The hostess doesn't notice. She's still across the circle, smiling, nodding, chirping. They're all chirping. The bitch in magenta tosses her sleek, blonde twist with a laugh that oozes such oily affect that I have no trouble imagining how she got into that fabulous gown. She looks like a million bucks, and apparently that's enough to warrant inexcusable breeding.

I'm quite certain she thinks this is the Mannerly Way of the highest and most noble order.

We must not, after all, be seen fraternizing or even being civil to The Help.

From my big ole pristinely painted, uncouth pie-hole, a most bohemian guffaw bursts forth before I can stop it. I'm not entirely sure that I would have, if I could have. My laugh smacks into her bead-bespangled back and gets lost in her perfect skin. My huge eyes slide off to the side. "WOW," I mutter with immense enunciation.

And let me assure you just how immense my enunciation can get around that word.

I can fit a whole pop can in my mouth, yo. Look, Ma! No hands! Some of my beloved asshole-friends even have blackmail video proof, so when I saunter over to the jumbo shrimp and relish in a few, I'm probably an echo of Dangerous Beauty.²

I stroll. I nod. I smile. I nibble.

I answer the questions of friendly ladies who assume I am one of them, just decked in some sort of bold, flamboyant statement-of-a-gown. Thankfully, most of them express their excitement to see me dance when I explain my Scheherazady self.

During my performance, theirs are the eyes and smiles I cling to with my claws, for the show is a nightmare. Horrified gasps. Comments hissed behind hands. Stuffed, puffy-cheeked penguins blustering over too-tight bowties.

I perform my first two numbers on the ballroom floor in front of the stage where only the front row can see that I am actually a choreographic technician and high-class artist, in addition to an acrobatic gravity-defier with a sword. After that, I dance two more numbers among the crowd and encourage them to get up and try.

No dice.

During negotiations and planning, when I had informed my hostess that, no, I would not be accepting body tips, she had offered to go behind me with my basket. I hadn't done body-tipping at the restaurants in some years, had never been comfortable with the tradition, and I’d certainly had no interest in starting up again at such a formal affair. Since this is a very worthy benefit and an auction, I’d never understood why she wanted me to follow restaurant tipping protocol but...whatever, she's the boss.

Doesn't matter. From the majority of reactions, I may as well have unhooked the center-closure of my top and let my tits jounce free.

Once I take my bows to sporadic clapping-amidst-crickets, I retreat to the bathroom.

Yes.

Here in Swanks-ville with a full stage and greenroom facilities, I have been relegated to the marble-encrusted bathroom.

And how do I know that there is a greenroom?

Because I've been in it.

During the meet-n-greet, when my painted-porcelain smile began to crack and no amount of shrimp-stuffing would keep my thoughts wrangled behind my shiny teeth, I’d retreated backstage. There I discovered the party band, kicked back with beers and unbuttoned collars in the greenroom.

Ah, what an oasis of heavenly palm trees on the desert horizon.

I peeked my nose in farther, caught the eye of a few of them, and said, "Hi. I'm the dancer. Would it be okay if I hung out with you guys until my show? They are...um…not very nice to me out there."

"Oh, I'm sure," a bearded guy said.

"Come on in," said another.

Thus did I spend the next hour-and-a-half in casual safety with My Kind. The band watched my show from their perches up on the stage, and I would have much rather performed for their admiring artist-eyes than for Snootyville wishing me ill with their eye-daggers.

Now that I’m done with that fiasco, I really want to catch the band’s show in return, so I lock my dastardly self in the handicapped stall and change into my own evening gown—the backless one of midnight blue lace with a slight train, a thigh-high slit, and black vinyl fringe. I put my hair up, add a quick few curls to frame my face, and touch up my makeup.

This does not go over well with The Hissing Cats.

What is a dancer-grrl to do except smile sweetly and compliment their outfits?

😈

They really hate that. Because what can you say, especially to someone in an equally fabulous gown? This one is a jaw-dropper and it paints all my best assets in chic, nighttime elegance.

The band is jammin', so for the next few hours, I bask in one of my favorite pastimes to an awesome party band with the few gals who were sweet to me during the meet-n-greet.

Doesn't hurt that one of the guitarists keeps making eyes at me. He is the youngest of the group, tall, elfin, engrossed in everything he does—always a turn-on to me. His glorious blonde curls hang down alongside his face, damp with sweat, begging to be pushed back from his face and his guitar strings. Every so often, he gives his hair a fling, then bends back over his instrument.

Every-every so often, his eyes lift and lock onto mine. They are as dark as his guitar, as fervent as his hands on those strings—and believe you me, those hands are wondrous things. Long-fingered. Graceful. Strong and dextrous.

They conjure up all sorts of curiosities in my mind.

Curiosities like if they would be just as graceful, strong and dextrous on things other than strings.

And if he would be graceful, strong and dextrous on a dancer-grrl’s heart strings.

At the end of the night while the band breaks down, I take my time bidding farewell to my new friends. I then stroll past the band to thank them for being so kind to me amidst such a stressful event. As the older men reply with strains of, "Our pleasure," their eyes keep sliding over to their youngest member.

Mine follow suit.

Not one of them seems put out when he pauses working. They pause, too, a-grin behind him, which he pretends not to notice. He jumps down to compliment me on my performance. I return the sentiments.

"So..." he starts in a soft, understated voice quite different from his belting tones up there on the stage. His curls cover much of his face, as it’s turned aside. I'm pretty sure he's blushing under there, although his face is in silhouette with the work lights of the stage behind him.

"So," I offer, taking a step toward him. I tilt my face directly toward his and fix him with a smile beaming certainty of what he's about. Most of his bandmates wear wedding rings. He does not. Neither do I.

He cracks off a big smile and his gaze lowers even further. "So, do you ever drink coffee?"

"I don't."

His mouth hangs open as he wrangles together a whole new set of words from the ones he'd planned on saying.

I grin to put him out of his misery. "I do, however, drink tea, and I know of a really great place that serves both."

The smile returns, bigger, toothier. He chuckles, and then the eyes again. He makes the slightest hint of a bow, head tipped with a little movement from the waist. "Would you care to introduce me to this place and accompany me for a hot beverage some afternoon?"

Tickled, I return the gesture. I've never known a man to remotely hint at a bow outside my old Medieval reenactment group. "I would like that," I return.

With the exchange of our phone numbers, that's that.

---

At Montagues

FOR THE NEXT 6 WEEKS

For the next six weeks, I spent every Sunday afternoon with Galen Leyforth. He lived over an hour away, and traveled to Colorado Springs every weekend for one of his regular gigs. In spite of being Mr. Superstar onstage, he was as formal as he had seemed in our first exchange, only taking my hand twice during that whole month and a half. The first time, he helped me down some icy stairs on our winter-wonderland park stroll. It was incredibly sweet.

During our second visit to my favorite teahouse—our sixth Sunday date in a row—he confided in me one of his greatest sorrows.

Upon falling silent, his eyes shouted pain while his fingers strummed the long peach fringe that dangled from the lampshade between us. It was an agitated movement. I placed soft fingertips over his. He blinked out of his reverie and stared at me, seeming surprised at such tender comfort being offered to him.

I added a sad little smile and a nod of understanding.

At the handful of words I suggested, his gaze went liquid and more open than I had ever seen it. Then his caresses shifted from the fringe to my fingers. Our hands danced among the soft peach strands for several minutes, and we didn't need to say anything more.

---

The next night, Galen took me to that five-star dinner to celebrate my birthday. Afterwards, I invited him up the stairs to my box-riddled apartment. He took off his big, heavy boots and laid his black leather jacket atop the nearest pile of moving boxes. My coat made quite the contrast—a flared, scarlet number with cuffs and collar of faux leopard fur. Those two coats could have summed up this pairing in a glance.

I led him to the futon that doubled as both my couch and guest bed. For a time, we sat and continued the conversation we'd been having in the restaurant. Both our elbows were propped up on the back rest. Both our knees were propped up on the cushion.

When our words faded, our gazes intensified. His long arm straightened toward me. His fingers traced the bottom edge of my sleeve. At my smile, his pinky finger touched mine. I touched his back.

Such a slow pace was glorious to me. I hadn't been on so much as a date with a man in over a year-and-a-half. Until Galen, I hadn't wanted to.

But this slow, curious exploration...I was finally ready for it. After eighteen months of soul searching, after swearing several vows to myself, and after embarking upon several monumental quests, it was time.

So on this day twenty-three years ago, Galen Leyforth leaned closer to press his lips softly against mine. I breathed him in for a long moment. It was a delight to let him make the first move, to feel nothing but YES humming in the core of my every cell. Kissing him back, I shifted closer and drew him in more deeply with the tug of my hand upon his face.

There was no passionate tumble that night. No urgency. Not even between our mouths or our fully-clothed embrace. There was only that steady, gradual, honey-rich exploration of each other’s softest kiss.

When we finally drew apart with matched sighs of satisfaction, I could feel that my eyes were as hazy as his. I didn't want to send him back out into the cold for an hour-long drive on the dark, winter freeway. He didn't want to make that drive, but he had to work the next morning, and so did I.

We agreed that it would just give us more to look forward to on the weekend.

---

ON THE WEEKEND

As promised, he came to visit me the next Sunday after his Christmas Eve obligations. He did kiss me again. But I was incapable of tilting my face up to meet him. If the neck brace hadn't stopped me, my agony would have. He couldn't hug me hello or goodbye except with the most tenatative, surface embrace. When we gazed into each other's eyes, I had to squint because the afternoon sunlight behind him was too bright. My brow ridge felt like the whole top of my skull had been compressed down on top of it. My eyeballs felt like someone had driven spears through them.

Still, it was heaven to see him.

He helped me make goulash and we sat down on my living room floor on either side of my steamer trunk. I hadn't yet acquired a dining table, so we had dinner down there, where he told me that he wanted to officially date me. He wanted me to be exclusively his.

He had no fucking clue.

To my credit, I couldn't have warned him to save my life. It would take half a year for me to fully comprehend the ramifications of being slammed into a construction median by a drunk driver two nights after our first kiss. It would take many more years before I really learned how to live with it.

Every time I think about Galen, I wonder what he and I would have become, had I decided to take Nevada Avenue back to my new apartment on the Winter Solstice, instead of I-25.

© 2020 Hartebeast

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UP NEXT:

PLEASE DON’T DRINK & DRIVE.

What interrupted this faerie tale romance:

1. My Warrior Princess video with World Dance NY

2. Veronica’s big gob in Dangerous Beauty