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He would follow her from Paris to New York to London, a week long tryst. They would make out in pink moonlight and amber streetlight, on the hood of a golden Jag. She wore a crochet top and slouchy suede, as soft and loose as the notes of a jazz crescendo. If he was Kafka, she was poetry material. It was Saturday night and the dawn of disco. An endless sunrise, a lilac sky with whipped cream clouds, and the only place to be was on the floor, dancing like it could be their last dance, their last chance at love.
They stood under a pale green bulb, their own glowing world in a violet Manhattan skyline. Washed in new waves of art and neon reverb, topped with a Basquiat crown. They danced in Manchester, where every day felt like Sunday, and every brick alley made of acid-washed stars from the Cosmos. They were wanderers still. They went wherever the synth would take them, anywhere but mainstream, and found utopia. Pressed together in a crowd of leather and lace, dancing under a moonlit halo at the edge of the stage, in the velvety depths of the underground.
A prophecy came true, like Prince had told us, when we partied like its 1999. Because Y2K was coming, and the world might end, so we danced, waiting for short circuits and blackened grids, when the lights would go out in London, then Germany, and Tokyo, like candles in the wind, and the globe would go dark. We were on the edge of a century, so we raved in blazing strobes. It was the scent of wild abandon. Broken beats found us and soul healed us. Doc Martens held us to the ground. And like the fallen straps of a champagne slip dress, we were not that innocent, but we would be notorious.