Scrittura Magazine Issue 16 Summer 2019

Page 16

Scrittura Magazine




Louis Gallo

On that sluggish, dismal day I took a nap and dreamed that we were Fred & Ginger, but not Fred & Ginger, we were a god and goddess, you wearing a bejeweled silk flapper dress and I a white tuxedo and we were doomed to a dilapidated, woeful, moldy warehouse where hunched, shadowy, hooded figures, ghouls draped in ashen cloaks, apprised our every move. When the music began, an ultra-famous Strauss waltz, not the Blue Danube nor Emperor, but one equally famous, the name of which escapes me, though the tune still ricochets in my mind, a fabulous, joyful piece which I cannot find on YouTube but know, I’ve heard it all my life, a nearly sublime melody that alchemized us into air, lighter than air, as we swirled and looped and flew across the dingy floor, no ritzy Fred & Ginger set, but it didn’t matter— we were elegance, poise, beauty, dance, we became pure formality, we glowed, we ignored the seedy interlopers and danced as we stared into each other’s eyes, we, stylized passion, could not be stopped, we danced on, we never stopped, not until the dream ended, as if we danced out of the dream itself and back into the shoddy misery of that broken-down place and the still dismal day, still gray, still raining, raining endlessly, and here I am still ransacking my brain for the name of that ethereal waltz, suspecting that perhaps I composed it for the dream, knowing that I didn’t.