Tonight, we met Dave.
Dave looked about 70. The creases on his drawn face were filled with stories, one of which includes that of moving from the UK and living in the US for over 20 years before returning. He told me with a mixed American-British accent, a lot of saliva passed through a sparse set of teeth and plastered itself on my left cheek as I leant in to his face to hear what he was saying. My friends were djing some really good soulful music, stuff that urges a groove, music that makes your shoulders twitch without really realising before the feet lift in rhythm and the hips follow, for a short inhibited moment. Wearing a tight tie dyed hippie-like long sleeved top, jeans pulled up beyond the belly button and a decent head of silver hair, Dave danced from the soul. He moved in a camp manner, his arms would twist and his hips would groove in rhythm to the soul that was blaring. He was the only person dancing. People in the bar would look on over, some would snigger, perhaps look down on him, others would smile with encouragement and a couple, toward the end, actually joined him. There’s something that fascinated us about him, his energy was unrivalled and his balls were huge. To dance in front of a floor to ceiling window that smokers sitting in the heated outdoor area and general Friday night passers by could be witness to is the epitome of freedom. He just did not give a shit. And I love him for him.
Dave, dear Dave, I salute you.