He stands a foot from the wall, illuminated by strobe lit blobs and spheres, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cold beer. 10 pm he’d guess, summer darkness outside lures moths to flight, rhythm finds his feet, yet too soon for moves. She takes to the floor, perfection, slight yet curved, green eyed blonde, focal point of his desire. No smile, yet politely declines the handsome, or just confident, dancing with her sister or maybe a friend. He buys a second beer, a small one, returns, his space still there a few metres from her presence. 11.30 pm checks his time, no chance, better men have tried, he moves. She turns to face his walk towards her, the beat slows, traces a smile, no words, her fingers behind his neck stroke him closer, his hands on short skirted hips that sway in and not away. One song, two songs later, too soon, sibling, friend, whispers, “We have to go.” He asks to see her, she puts her finger to her lips then his, says “I fly home to Germany tomorrow” let’s go his hand and disappears. Forty years on he’s not forgot, likes to believe, she’s still dancing, has had a good life.