My Aim: Burned Brighter Than Years Ever, Madame Nostalgia Became the Light

I should have known I was freefalling into a star—the burning sand was searing the soles of my feet like blackened dolphin, and II was moving faster with every step before that final leap into the kettle. I let myself steep for just a moment in the undulating current of potential beneath the surface before II breached, turned back toward the bubble-littered beach, slid the thick curtains of hair from my eyes, and beheld, for my very first time, the star at the center of my life: dark curls, brown Earth—Estrella. The wind played a conch note blowing through my hanging jaw scored my blurred vision of this Goddess come down from atop the brass facade of an acanthus or a frozen fountain, but it was not am aria or an opera that would move our hearts in tune—our song was preluded by small talk, by words: dance, disco. From there we glided as if the sands and streets were what slid beneath our needle feet like spinning vinyl grooves, and my convertible Mustang drove itself up Collins through the pastel gaussian blur of art deco chaperones motioning us on. The egg cream & pastrami at Wolfie's, the conversation, and the atomic afternoon sun went down easy and smooth, like the skin of her hand in mine, and then it was time we got down, too. We met again in our very best to set aflame the night at the Mecca of cats who know: Casanova's. In her blue dress and white knee-highs, she hung on me like cigarette smoke. That's when Madame Nostalgia took the stage–the rest is a supernova, baby.