He started dancing at the club approximately eight months ago, just a few days after Car moved into my Cape Cod. Prior to dancing for its patrons, he was a patron, studying the dancers. He took notes on his phone. He asked if he could take photographs of the performers, which I agreed to. His studying continued for a month, two months, almost three months, until I confronted him, “Do you want to be a dancer, Rocco, or are you writing a book about dancers? What’s going on in your life? What are you thinking about? Do you want to dance or not? Tell me.”
“I’d like to try dancing.” His blue eyes are intoxicating. His lips are a ruby-red that probably drive men wild. His thick coils of black hair look like a sheen of oil. The club doesn’t have a Middle-Eastern dancer. Maybe it should.
I priva
