Jazz Dream

As Ella coos from the cd player, Anything Goes as I slide into fantasy. I skip lightly across the kitchen floor, preparing my turkey sandwich as if it were cavier. I grab a can of Coke and twirl around to the counter gracefully, paying careful attention to posture so my body looks lean in my imaginary red evening gown; the jazz releasing my head from my neck, bobbing from shoulder to shoulder, the notes of that saxophone blowing through the diamonds dangling from my lobes. One white-gloved finger brushes my hair back from my forehead as I join the other distinguished guests around the immaculately set dining room table. I wonder which will request a dance, Cheek to Cheek... hoping it will be the blonde next to me. As he reaches for his napkin, his hand brushes mine and even through the glove, I am Too Darn Hot - afraid this passion will melt the ice sculpture centerpiece.

Only when the doorbell rings do I answer in sock feet and turn down the cd player. My landlord does not appreciate Ms. Fitzgerald's serenade, nor my imaginary dinner party - a very ironic Let's Call the Whole Thing Off attitude. I laugh at my daydream and think most people would find this all very strange. I curl up on our beat-up couch in a warm blanket and pop in an old movie, smiling as I imagine that handsome man at the dinner table humming I Get a Kick Out of You.