John Shore Christian Blog and Commentary

Our biggest sale! 50% off your PLUS subscription. Use code SUMMER

When Pretty Women Dance

After the dinner I wrote a bit about in yesterday's How I Got a Blog on Huffington Post (And Help Me Mooch Indian Food!), Cat, DR and I took a stroll down from where we'd eaten (being-for those who asked-George's at the Cove) to this promenade:

which runs between the ocean and this park:

which looks beautiful, but may end up being a curse for anyone who's been there and then ends up in heaven, since I imagine that God frowns upon anyone who looks around after stepping through the Pearly Gates, and says (or thinks), "Really? This is all you've got?"

But there we were. It was about 9:30 at night. A perfect half-moon shone in the black velvet sky. The ocean called to the eternal within us, via all those oceany sounds it makes. A balmy breeze that felt both shy and welcoming massaged us in a way that reminded me to later be sure and look up the word "balmy."

I wouldn't say that by then I'd had so many cocktails I'd given the bartender at George's a case of tennis elbow, but as we were leaving I did notice that he'd put on one of those carpal-tunnel wrist braces.

Hey, man. Don't become a bartender if you're not ambidextrous. That's my motto.

But you get the picture, right? It's me, Cat, and DR, who is in every last way these words mean a beautiful person, strolling through the warm night air of this seaside park.

And in so doing we came across this little building:

There was a wedding reception going on inside. Through the windows we could see all the people dancing, and of course could hear their music.

Cat took DR's hand. "C'mon!" she said. "Let's dance!"

And just like that my two companions were running through the darkness toward the building.

The above picture was taken (by DR, the next day) from more or less the exact spot at which I stood and watched as Cat and DR, exercising that special privilege that is the birthright of all pretty women, without any guile or prevarication effortlessly integrated themselves into the party. This they achieved simply by dancing; I saw them instantly hailed and welcomed. Their presence picked the party up, as new, pretty girls dancing tends to do.

And I, out in the darkness watching what in many ways looked like an especially lively scene from a movie, felt everything in the universe suddenly click into alignment.

They were so pretty. And they were having such a great amount of fun being so pretty — and dancing, which all girls love to do.

And to my right the infinite ocean; beneath my feet the yielding lawn of these impossibly beautiful grounds; surrounding me the unweighted darkness, from which I drew permission to claim as my own the totality of that one perfect moment.

I saw my wife, still dancing, come to the window and in vain peer out to see me.

And then DR, in her black dress, and barefoot now, was just outside the building, standing in the bright light of the open door through which she and Cat had made their entrance.

"John Shore!" she called out into the night. "Come on in here!"


 Share your thoughts and comments.


Show me some like