We went skinny dipping after dark. Marina sat on the edge of the speedboat and lit sparklers for us and we swam out into the black lake (heedless of the seven-foot sturgeon or other lake monsters) and performed drunken sparkling water ballets. On the far reaches of the landscape a lightning storm flashed at the edge of the cloud cover in pale imitation.
Later, standing on the back deck, someone put “Billy Jean” on the stereo and we whirled around in happy squealing circles. What serendipity, I thought, what utter perspicuity, to identify the exact song necessary to wind up a night like that.
Later on, I realized that maybe it doesn’t take exceptional perception to figure out which song will cause drunken white girls of a certain age to lose their minds. But at the time it seemed like auditory manna.
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