And then I stop.

It’s his eyes that get me. Gray. Or green. Or perhaps, blue. Hard to tell in the flashing lights, but they’re big and perfectly rimmed with kohl, and they stand out against his brown skin and his black hair and his white shirt and follow me across the room to where I can no longer dance, but I merely perform.

I’m aware of every beat. Every move of my arms. Every breath.

I try to push that all out of my mind. Synth beats. Smoke. Lights. The scents of cologne and dry ice and alcohol. I open myself up and let it fill me.

Only.

Those.

Eyes.

Suddenly we’re dancing together. Not just next to each other, pushed adjacent by the jostling crowd in our black jeans and black eyeliner, but together, mirroring each other’s movements, sharing glances.

Three songs later and he’s still there, his lopsided smile telling me he knew that I knew that we were in it for an hour, or at least another song.

All the while I watch him covered with blue dots like stars in a dark sky.

There’s a slice of silence as New Order’s “Blue Monday” slides into Re-Flex’s “The Politics of Dancing.”

The boy motions me over to the wall. Away from the people. Far from the speakers.

I’ve seen you here, he says. Before.

He phrases it like its two sentences. With a pause between “here” and “before.” It’s difficult not to analyze his comment. He’s noticed me in the past enough to recognize me in the present.

While I try to figure out how I can respond—as if I could respond—he adds, With your friend. With James.

Well, of course he’d know James. Everyone at The Echo knows James. The only reason he would notice me is because I was with James.

So I smile and nod, and I wait for the questions to start: What is James really like? Are you seeing him? Is he seeing anyone? Does he like boys or girls? What’s his deal, anyhow? Can you give me his number?

This time there are no questions. This time there is only: I’ve been wanting to meet you. To talk to you. To dance with you. I’ve been waiting until you were alone.

His name is Gabriel. And all I can think of is the angel.

We talk about the music. We talk about the club and the boys and the girls and the snow and about how sad it was that Karen Carpenter died. We talk about everything and nothing, even when we aren’t sure we heard right because of the relentless thump of the bass and the pressing crunch of the dancers and because I keep losing my train of thought while I’m looking into his eyes. Trying to figure out if they’re really blue or just blue in the lights.

He never does ask about James.

As we’re talking and dancing, I’m also hovering somewhere over the bar, soaring above the room, lost in the lights. Danni throws on Lena Lovich, singing about wanting a new toy. Very funny. I’m not sure who he thinks the toy is, Gabriel or me.