subject line: dance with me.



The night I met him, after several rounds of beer and cider and mysterious shots, she dragged us four to the town’s sole nightclub and as the floor quietly began to fill up with intoxicated young college students and members of a wedding party, he promised he would dance with me.

After three rounds of board games at the coolest brewery in town, I felt like I already knew him. I was comfortable around him; there was no need to try to be someone. He was like a long-lost old friend and I was happy to have found him. He talked intelligently, he was curious and kind. We talked about Europe. He knew so much.

He never danced with me, not the night I met him nor during the one and a half years that I got to know him. Every now and then, the four of us got together again and gathered around the table at the brewery, playing board games, before bar-hopping to another bar for rounds of pool. After a long night of talking and laughing I always returned home with a content heart.

He will never dance with me. He died a week ago and left a crack in our hearts. In my mother language death is a taboo and I don’t know how to deal with the loss of him. My ever-so-content heart is now in thousands of pieces.