Dancing with the Ex

There are bright spots of light on the dark wood floor of the bar,
coming from the1960s disco ball revolving overhead.
I look down and you are wearing sneakers
and I time warp to those other decades.
It should be Hush Puppies.
We should be dressed better.
This is a neighbourhood fundraiser:
clothes don’t matter.
We all pretend we are poor,
egalitarianism in action.
And in the music, too.
Raucous hip hop music that should only be heard
by those under twenty with a limited income and IQ.
I am not being egalitarian
There should be strobe lights.
We all dance better to the jerky flash.
I am being unfair to epileptics.
The wooden floor would not have let your shoes squeak.
I remember museums and galleries, with marble floors,
every step a squeal and my embarrassment.
There are no slow dances so we barely touch.
I buy you a drink and we sit watching pool players.
I eat salty snacks, you eat sugary ones.
We are still rebels, at least in our diets.
Soon we make excuses, thank the organizers,
grab one briny dipped carrot and iced muffin for the road.
I walk you to your vehicle,
your sneakers making melting prints in the fresh snow.
We kiss quickly, affectionately, under a too bright streetlight.
Neither of us suggest anything else.
Later, I stare out my window at a streetlight,
listening to the music of the traffic,
blinking as quickly as I can,
trying to make strobe lights for wherever you are.